CHAPTER XXII. THE WHITE ANGEL.
Maureen had the calm of a really great nature. She went steadily now and took her place by the sick girl's bedside. Daisy glanced at her for a minute with dull and uncomprehending eyes, then she turned away with a sort of groan.
"She hates—hates—hates me," muttered the sick child. "I did my best to kill her horse, only I didn't mean to kill it. Upon my word, I didn't. I meant to make it bad as I am now, but that horrid Garry came and frightened me, and my hand shook and I couldn't put in the right quantity of the stuff. It is awful to be hated by one like Maureen. She is so strong—so strong. I'm a poor little nobody—but she—she crushes me down and down. It's awful, isn't it? Who are you?"
A dim, very dim, glance of understanding crept into the dull eyes.
"I," said Maureen. She spoke in her richest voice. "I am one who indeed gave way to that awful, unholy sin of hate; but all that has passed—has vanished. Where I hated, now I love. According to the strength of my hatred, so is the greatness of my love."
"Pah," said Daisy, "I expect you are one of the angels. I don't want any of them about. I suppose that means I am going to die. But I won't die; I won't go pop like mumsie, only I'm horrid hot. Angel, are you cool?"
"Yes; shall I hold your—your hand?"
"But you are not going to take me away?"
"No, indeed, I am not."
"Then if you are cool, you may hold my hand. You remind me of someone—I don't know who. A good person. I do so loathe good people; but then you are not a person at all. You are an angel. Angel, send those nurses away and hold my hand."
Maureen beckoned to the two women, who retired behind a screen in a corner of the room.
Maureen had extraordinary sympathy in her hand. Some people have that gift, and it is very remarkable. It quiets better than any drug; it soothes beyond any medicine which has ever yet been invented.
The girl, who had been tossing impatiently from side to side, began, slowly and impatiently at first, but after a time quite perceptibly, to feel the influence of the little hand. Then the two hands were placed over hers and she gave a deep sigh of relief.
"I'm better, I think," she said. "I'll soon be all right again, and ready to punch Pinchin and Maureen and all my enemies. I couldn't eat, you know; that's why I flopped down like this. Angel, will you stay with me?"
"Yes."
"And you don't hate me?"
"I—LOVE—you."
"You have a queer, deep voice—something like Maureen's. I say, shall we both fight her together?"
"We will," said Maureen.
"Ha! Ha! that's good. Ha! Ha! Ha! Have those horrible nurses gone?"
"They are not near you now. I command you to sleep. Close your eyes and sleep."
"Oh, but I do feel yawny. You wouldn't ask me to sleep if you knew what my dreams were."
"I can promise you will not have those dreams while I hold your hand."
"Then I think I will have a snooze. I am getting quite comfy. Mumsie, she broke her neck—doubled under her you know—and she left her money to Maureen—all of it to Maureen. Poor Henny and I were beggars. I'm getting very sleepy. Maureen has all the money—she who said, 'I hate you!' But you are different, dear angel; you don't hate."
"No; as she hated, so do I in a much greater degree love."
"That's nice—I'll take a snooze. You won't mind if I keep my mouth open and snore?"
By the time the two doctors arrived, the girl in white with the wonderful eyes was seated by the bedside, and the sick girl who was so dangerously ill was in a light refreshing slumber. There were great drops of dew on her forehead. Maureen's little hands held hers and the power of Maureen's love was surrounding her.
The nurses, who had listened to the conversation between the two, had told the doctors what had occurred. They listened in untold amazement.
Dr. Halsted said, "We will make a slight examination without waking her, and the girl in white must stay by her side."
It was some hours later, long past dinner-time, when Maureen slipped out of the Infirmary and went for a moment to the Chamber of Peace. She was, in truth, deadly tired. She felt like one who had been dragged through a rushing torrent; she felt like one who, hitherto strong, was now strangely weak.
This was not to be wondered at, for she had given of the very essence of her life to the sick girl, and before she left her she had turned the scales for Daisy Mostyn towards this present life.
The worst was over, the girl would live. Maureen rang her bell. Immediately Mrs. Faithful, who had been on the watch all these hours, came to the child.
"Oh, my dear, wonderful little girl," she began.
"Don't praise me, please," said Maureen. "I think she's better; I think she'll live."
"Yes; the doctors are quite sure she'll live, darling, and you have done it."
"It was the least I could do," said Maureen; "but please, I should like something to eat. I want to rest for half an hour, and then I must see Henrietta."
"Oh, my child, you cannot go through fresh tortures with that terrible girl to-day."
"But indeed, please, I must. I have come here for the sake of those girls. May I have something—anything—sustaining. You see," continued Maureen, "I sort of—sort of put my life into Daisy. That's why I feel so tired. It can be done, and I did it."
At that moment the door was opened and one of the many nice servants appeared, carrying a tray of refreshing food for Maureen to eat. There was also a tiny glass of invalid wine.
"Lie on the bed, darling," said Mrs. Faithful, "and I will feed you."
"No," said Maureen. "Dear Mrs. Faithful, be as kind to me as you like to-night, when my task is over. But until it is over kindness might make me break down. By the way, is Dom here?"
"Of course he is. Would you like to see him?"
"Not yet."
"Then eat, dearest, eat. Don't take your glass of wine first. Eat."
Maureen smiled faintly, but obeyed.
The food was light and perfect. It was nourishing and easily digested. Mrs. Faithful saw that the girl was in a very high state of excitement, and took measures accordingly. She cut up the food into little morsels and made Maureen eat, and then she gave her sips of the rare wine and did all that she did do in a sort of matter of fact way, for she knew that she had in her charge a very precious little girl and that she must take great care of her.
"I'm better now—quite well in fact," said Maureen when the meal had come to an end.
She stood up and stretched herself a little.
"You are good to me," she said. "I can't thank you; there's no time at present. Ask Dominic to wait for me until I want him. I shall want him, I hope, very soon."
"He's going to spend the day here, my love. At present he, Margaret Devereux, and Evelyn Ross are walking in the paddock. I think they are enjoying themselves very much."
"You have a beautiful home," said Maureen.
"It is a home with two sides, darling. For those who have conquered in the fight it is a beautiful home."
"I understand," said Maureen. "Thank you. Please, where shall I find Henrietta?"
"Oh, my darling, you must not go to her now. She's most troublesome and rebellious. We are doing all we can, but nothing seems to move her. You are not in a fit state for an interview with that terrible girl."
"Mrs. Faithful," said Maureen, "why did you send for me?"
Mrs. Faithful was silent; she absolutely blushed under that steadfast gaze.
"I will tell you why," said Maureen. "Uncle Pat told you everything, and you, wise woman that you are, knew perfectly well that you would require my help; that it was just possible for me to accomplish what you with all your knowledge might fail to attain. Please, I must go to Henrietta, and please, I am quite well now, and not at all tired, and I must accomplish my work before I rest."
"Well, child, I cannot refuse. I will ring for Dinah."
"Dinah? What a pretty name!"
"Yes, and she is good and strong—as good as her name. At present she is the sole caretaker of Henrietta Mostyn. I will just prepare you for the fact that she is a Quakeress."
"Oh, but I love them," said Maureen, her eyes shining.
"Here she comes then. Once she had the great privilege of helping to nurse your father. He had a sharp attack of fever at Felicity after the death of your dear young mother. Here she comes. Dinah, this is our Miss Maureen."
"Maureen O'Brien, I greet thee," said Dinah.
Dinah was an elderly woman. She wore the old-fashioned dress of her Order. She had a tight-fitting cap over her head, made of the softest, finest muslin. It was tied under her chin. Her eyes were like dove's eyes. She gave the instant impression of great peace.
Maureen looked at her and shivered a little. Then she said:
"Oh, I am glad to see you!"
"And I to see thee, sweetest and best," said Dinah.
"Dinah, take me to Henrietta."
"But, hast thee the strength?" inquired Dinah.
"God will give it to me, Dinah."
"Then thou shalt assuredly come. Take my hand."
The house of Felicity was very large and rambling, and certain rooms were sound-proof. This was found to be necessary on account of the outrageous conduct of some of the naughty girls when they first arrived. Dinah, still holding Maureen's hand, stepped lightly on the highly polished floor. Then she opened a door. There was a little dark passage inside. She opened a second door, and Maureen suddenly heard the wild shrieking notes of a voice which she knew but too well.
"Dysy—Dysy—give us your answer, do! Dysy—Dysy—why, I say—get out of this, brat!"
"Thou wilt not speak words of this sort," said Dinah.
"But I will, pretty Quakeress," said Henny, who was still securely fastened in the punishment chair. "I say, where's the birch rod? Dinah, me honey, take care of thy money; it's all botheration from bottom to top."
"Maureen O'Brien has come to see thee," remarked Dinah. "Thou wilt treat her civilly."
"I'm peckish, peckish," said Henrietta. "I don't want to see the enemy, and I'm tied into this odious chair, so that I can't get at her. I tell thee I'm just pining to scratch her face."
"Dinah, may I speak to Henrietta?" said Maureen.
"Thou hast full permission," said Dinah.
She sat down at once and went on with her eternal sewing. She had her back slightly turned to the two girls.
Henrietta burst into a scream of laughter.
"I say, Goody-two-shoes, doesn't she look nobby in that Quaker cap. I'm going to be a Quaker in future, and I'll 'thee' and 'thou' thee all out of the world. I expect I'll make a very striking Quaker. Isn't my hair jolly fuzzy? She took the glue out of it—you might rumple it up for me a bit if you like."
Maureen approached quite near. She laid her gentle hand on the little fiery head, and did what Henrietta required. Henrietta made some futile attempts to bite her, but Maureen was sharp enough to evade them.
"Henny," she said then in her gentle voice, "I must confess something to you."
"Lawk-a-massy me! That sounds a bit of Yorkshire relish. You—Goody-two-shoes—confessing forsooth! Well, go ahead. I'm in the mood to be pleased with any trifle; so would you, if you had been tied in this chair since early morning. It doesn't hurt a bit. It's even fairly comfy, but I can't move my hands or arms or legs or even my head much. Dinah, Dinah, isn't it time for thee to feed thy sister Quaker again?"
"Not yet, child," was Dinah's reply.
"There," said Henny. "You see for yourself the way I'm treated, and yet I'm fond of Dinah. I'm going to join her persuasion and will go to the Meeting-House with her and speak when the Spirit prompts me. I have been thinking out what my first discourse will be. It will all be about a horrid girl called Maureen, who secured for herself a great lump of mumsie's money. I'll show you up, Maureen. I rather guess it will be an exciting meeting."
"Thou must not speak of our holy Meeting-House in that fashion," said Dinah.
"Please, dear Dinah," suddenly interrupted Maureen, "let her say just what she likes for the present."
Dinah bent over her fine sewing and her lips moved in silent prayer.
"That's how she goes on all day," said Henrietta. "Lively for me, isn't it? Well, Miss Hate—Hate—Hate, and how do you find yourself?"
"Henrietta, I've come here to-day——"
"Oh, I don't want humbug," said Henrietta.
"I've come here to-day," continued Maureen, "to unsay those cruel words. I own that I was frightfully hurt, and I gave way to great sin."
"Ah—the little saint—she gave way to great sin," repeated Henrietta.
"And God was very angry with me," continued Maureen.
"I should think so, indeed. You looked downright shocking."
"I cannot tell you of those days of misery; but the God who forgives forgave me, and great, great joy came back to me. And Love—oh, most wonderful—and Henny, of all the people whom I felt I ought to love and help, you and Daisy came first."
"Is Daisy going to die?"
"No; I think she will live. I have been with her for several hours."
"Lawk-a-massy me!"
"Now, Henrietta, I wish to tell you that having spent the entire morning with Daisy and being well assured that she will recover, I want to help you, for my hatred has been turned into love—very deep. Will you take it, dear Henny?"
"I take your love? Not I! I don't want it. I like your hatred best. I can speak better when the Spirit moves me, thinking of you as hating me."
"Poor Henrietta."
"Don't pity me. I won't be pitied."
"Very well, I won't. But I tell you what, I think you want a little change, and do you know that Dom is here?"
"Old Dom? I like old Dominic."
"Well, he's here. It was he who brought me over. What I thought was this, that you and Dominic and I could go and have tea at Dominic's hotel—the Rose and Honeysuckle—in the town quite close. We'll have a lovely tea and come back in the cool of the evening. Don't you think it would be a good plan?"
"Is it joking you're after?" said Henrietta.
"No; I'm in earnest. Ask Dinah."
"Oh, I'd give the world to go," said Henrietta. "Dinah, ducky of all ducky-ducks. Thou wilt say yes—thou wilt unbind the bands of thy sister and set her free."
Dinah rose very slowly.
"On a condition, I will do this thing," she remarked.
"What is that?"
"That thou dost not once raise the hand of spite against this dear lady."
"But I may feel it, I suppose."
"God help thee, poor child. Wilt thou never see the beautiful light?"
"I'm sure I'm staring at it when I look at thee," said Henrietta.
"I fear to loosen thee," remarked Dinah.
She sat down again in her chair.
Maureen felt puzzled. She seemed to have said everything, and exhaustion was again stealing over her. Suddenly, however, she was startled by a great cry.
"Dinah, Dinah, I'll be good. I'll not raise the hand of spite. I must go out with Maureen and with Dominic; I must gorge at the Hotel."
"First thou wilt say these words after me: 'I love Maureen O'Brien.'"
"But I don't," said Henrietta.
Dinah resumed her sewing. Another half hour passed.
"Dinah, ducksie, I will not smack Maureen. Dinah, I—I love Maureen."
"Is that true?" asked Dinah.
"Yes; I've been wrestling in the Spirit—it is true."
"Then I will unfasten thee. But Maureen O'Brien, I will come with thee on this walk, and enter that inn called the Rose and Honeysuckle, for I do not consider it safe to send thee alone with this maiden."
"I don't mind having thee, Dinah," said Henrietta in a meek voice. "Come along, unfasten the cords; set me free—set me free. Oh, jolly! Oh, golloptious! Oh, my poor leg—it has got the cramp—and my arm! Let me walk up and down the room, Dinah, leaning on thee."
"Dinah," said Maureen, "is there not a prettier frock she could wear?"
"It is against the rules," said Dinah; "but everything appears to be against the rules to-day. I have just finished a little blue muslin robe with a pale blue ground covered with forget-me-nots, and there is a hat with a wreath of forget-me-nots, which she can wear on this great occasion."
"Oh, golloptious!" cried Henny. "Let me get into the frock! Why, I am a darling Fuzzy-wuzzy. Look at my hair, Maureen. Don't you envy it like anything?"
"You must be quick," said Maureen. "The dress is very pretty."
She helped Dinah to get Henrietta into the blue dress. The little hat, on the top of the tangle of red hair, was really becoming. Then the Quaker woman put on her own long gray cloak and her Quaker bonnet, and promised to meet Maureen with Henrietta outside the grounds in ten minutes' time. There Dominic and Maureen did meet Henrietta and her companion.
Dominic gave Henrietta one of his straight glances.
"I'm good, Dommy," she said, "and I love Maureen like anything; but oh, I am so peckish. How soon can we get a good spanking feed?"
"I expect before long," said Dominic. "Don't lean on me, Henrietta. I have no doubt that good lady will offer you her arm if you require it, and I must help Maureen."
Thus they started off and reached the Rose and Honeysuckle. Henrietta mightily enjoyed the good things set before her, and fixed her bold, blue eyes on each individual who came into the coffee-room.
Having at last satisfied even her appetite, she tried the dodge of whispering to Dominic, but Dominic said aloud, "Whispering is not good form," then turned and spoke to Maureen.
He spoke in a low, confidential voice to his dear little cousin, and Henrietta's fiery temper assumed the colour of her hair. The Quaker woman was, however, watching her. But she herself was unaware of this fact.
Suddenly she sprang from her seat, and pulling Maureen towards her gave her several violent kisses on her lips, forehead, and cheeks. At the same time she managed to tangle the table-cloth round Maureen's little feet, so that when the party rose to go Maureen was the last to leave the table. She did not know what Henny had so cleverly contrived to do, but the entire contents of the tea-service were scattered in hopeless confusion on the floor. Cups and saucers were smashed, so was the old-fashioned slop bowl, and so was the cream jug and cake plates.
But not only did all this mischief occur, but the tea from the large metal teapot was spread all over the damask table-cloth, and a part of the liquid mess lay also on the neat carpet. Even worse was to follow, for Henny pretended that she liked her tea weak, and a small brass urn full of boiling water shared in the general ruin; it had a spirit lamp beneath, and Maureen in trying to save it, and to put the lamp out, burnt and scalded her hand and arm rather badly. The pain made her turn faint and sick for a moment, but she quickly recovered herself.
Henrietta, who saw everything, was in wild spirits.
"For such a very good colleen, you were awkward, Maureen mavourneen," she cried. "Hurrah! I can't help it. A pretty sum you will have to pay; but that seems fair enough, for it will be out of poor Mumsie's money."
Maureen took no notice of Henny's words, but said something in a low tone to Dominic. The boy and girl between them spoke to the waiter, and made up for the damage inflicted.
"Thou and I will walk quietly home together, Henrietta," said Dinah.
"I don't want to; I want to walk with Dom," said the girl.
"Thou wilt walk with me; Dominic and Maureen, precede us, please. I have words to say to this young maid."