Chapter Twelve.
A Terrible Experience.
When the girls reached home they found Lady Sarah awaiting them in the drawing-room. Her hands were lying idly on her lap, a white shawl was wrapped round her shoulders, and the sight of her tired, dispirited face brought with it a throb of compunction. It was not easy to continue the rhapsodies in which they had indulged all the way from the station in the presence of one who had, so evidently, found the day long and uninteresting. Lady Sarah, however, had many questions to ask, and received each answer with an echo of the old complaint.
“If I had only gone with you! It has been a beautiful day, I should have taken no harm. If it had not been for that unfortunate shower I should have seen it all, instead of sitting here the whole day long, wearying to death.”
“Dear Lady Sarah, haven’t you been a drive? Why didn’t you order the carriage, and go a nice long drive into the country?”
“What is the use of driving by yourself? No, thank you, Bertha, I prefer to stay at home. Cécile? no—not for worlds. I think something must be wrong with the girl’s nerves. It seems as if it were impossible for her to sit still the last few days. It fidgets me to be near a person who jumps up and down like a Jack-in-the-box. There is some supper waiting for you in the dining-room, my dears. You had better take it and let us get off to bed. The day has been long enough.”
The girls turned away obediently and hurried through their meal, not to delay the old lady any longer than could be helped. They had been successful in getting their own way, and, as is usual under the circumstances, conscience was beginning to reproach them for selfishness, and to suggest that it might have been possible to have had their own enjoyment, and to have allowed Lady Sarah to have had hers into the bargain.
When the twins went into Mildred’s bedroom to say good-night, Bertha could not refrain from putting these sentiments into words.
“Poor Lady Sarah, she does look dull! She has had a lonely day. I must say I feel rather—mean.”
“I feel mean too,” said Lois; but at this Mildred interrupted with an impatient protest.
“What in the world have you to feel mean about? You have done nothing. It was not your fault. You did nothing to prevent her going.”
“No, but I didn’t want her to come, even when she said it would be a pleasure. I was glad when she was prevented; I thought the shower was quite a providence.”
“Don’t, Bertha!” cried Mildred sharply. Her face flushed to a vivid pink, she seemed to struggle with herself for a moment, then said decisively, “Look here, I am going to tell you something. You will be shocked, but it’s done now, and can’t be undone, so there is no use saying anything about it. There was no shower. It was a trick. I played the hose upon her window.”
A gasp of horror sounded through the room as the twins uttered a simultaneous question, “You—what?”
“I played the hose upon her window. I’ll tell you all about it. You had both been crying in the dining-room, saying that your pleasure was spoiled, and that you wouldn’t enjoy yourselves a bit. Then you went out of the room and I strolled into the garden. I heard a noise at the window and saw Lady Sarah standing in her room. I didn’t want her to see me, so I slipped behind a clump of trees, and the hose was lying on the ground all ready. It darted into my head in a moment that I could make her think it was raining, and I took it up and played it gently on the panes,—just like the very beginning of a shower. By and by I heard the window open and saw her stretch out her hand; then I gave a flick round the corner, so that she got quite a nice little bath. The window shut with a bang, and I went on pattering until it was all over drops. She stood in the background looking out—”
“Oh, Mildred!” echoed the Dean’s daughters in horrified chorus; “Oh, Mildred! how could you, how dare you? Suppose anyone had seen you.”
“Oh, I took good care of that! No one saw me at all—except Erroll.”
“Erroll? Good gracious! And did you warn him not to tell?”
Mildred shook her head.
“No; Mother never allows us to tell the children anything like that. She says it makes them deceitful. He will forget all about it; children always do.”
“They generally remember when you want them to forget. Oh, Mildred, I wish you hadn’t done it! I don’t like it a bit. It makes me feel worse than ever.”
“You can’t feel anything like as bad as I do,” retorted Mildred miserably. “I was sorry the moment after I had done it. I went upstairs and stayed in my own room, for I thought I had done enough mischief, and had better keep out of the way. I was really disappointed to see Miss Turner in the carriage instead of Lady Sarah. I thought I shouldn’t enjoy myself at all—it worried me so; but then I got interested and forgot all about it—until we came home.” Her voice sank into a disconsolate whisper, “I don’t know what your mother will think, when she put her into my charge, too, but there are two days more; I’m going to be awfully nice, and try if I can’t make up.”
“We will all try,” said Bertha heartily. She saw that Mildred was even more distressed than she would admit, and was anxious to say something comforting before retiring for the night. “We have had our good time to-day, she shall have hers to-morrow. Don’t worry any more, Mil dear, but try to think of something nice that we can do for her as a surprise before Mother comes back.”
“It’s awfully good of you not to scold me, Bertha. I know you must be disgusted with me, though you won’t say so. You would never have done such a thing yourself.”
“No, because I am never in a hurry. I take a long time to make up my mind about anything, good or bad. If you had waited five minutes to think about it, you would never have played that hose; but never mind, Mil, some time there will be a brave thing to do, and you will have risked your life and done it, while I am still trembling on the brink. It works both ways, you see!”
Bertha patted her friend on the arm with an air of gracious condescension, and bidding her an affectionate good-night, returned to her own room.
Left to herself, Mildred began to undress in listless, disconsolate fashion. She was tired with the day’s exertions, and sorely troubled about the escapade of the morning. Lady Sarah’s face haunted her. If Bertha and Lois were shocked, what, oh! what, would be their mother’s feelings? “She will be grieved in earnest this time,” Mildred sighed to herself. “Oh, goodness, I wonder why it is that I am always getting into trouble! I mean to be good, I have the best intentions... Mrs Faucit will look at me as she did that day when I flew into a passion. I hate to be looked at like that. Great, solemn eyes, as if her heart were broken! And it was all my fault this time... I wish I could be calm and deliberate. I’ll begin to-morrow, and count twenty to myself before I say a single word.”
She crept into bed and laid her head upon the pillows with a weary sigh, but sleep was long in coming, and even when the lids closed over the tired eyes, the groans which forced themselves through the closed lips, the nervous twitches of the limbs, showed that an uneasy conscience pursued her into the land of dreams.
How long she slept Mildred never knew, but it seemed as if at one moment she was lost in unconsciousness, and at the next she was awake—wide, wide awake,—with her heart beating like a sledge-hammer, and an unusual chilling of fear in her veins. Something had aroused her—what was it? The echo of the sound rang in her ears, shrill, piteous, beseeching. What could it have been? Mildred sat up in bed and looked searchingly round the room. The light was high enough to show the furthest corner. The door was closed, the window as she had left it, the sash opened a few inches at the bottom; the tick of the little clock on the mantel-piece sounded clearly in the silence. All looked so calm, so peaceful, so safe, that Mildred drew a breath of relief and was preparing to burrow down again among the clothes, when her heart leapt at a repetition of the same mysterious sound.
There was no mistaking it this time. It was the sound of a voice raised in a wail of such bitter, helpless pleading as left the listener trembling with nervousness.
In the broad light of day, with friends seated by our sides, it is difficult to realise how keenly a sound such as this tells upon the nerves in the dark silence of the night, but Mildred was of a fearless nature, and after the first shock of surprise, her impulse was to find out the source of the alarm, not to hide her head under the bedclothes and stuff her fingers in her ears, as many another girl would have done in her place. She slipped out of bed, crept across the room to the window, and kneeling on the floor, applied her ear to the open space, listening intently.
The windows of the house were dark and lifeless, but as she waited, in straining silence, it seemed to Mildred that a faint murmur of voices reached her ear. Now a long level murmur, now a broken effort of protest, then again the smooth low voice.
Mildred turned her eye from one side to the other, calling to mind the different rooms to which the windows belonged. Below the breakfast-room, above the day nursery, to the right her own dressing-room, to the left, in the projecting wing, Lady Sarah’s room and that of her maid. Mildred had never realised before how she was cut off from the rest of the household, but the conviction that the voices must come from this last-named room brought with it a throb of relief. Cécile had said that her mistress was often irritably wakeful during the night-time, and had warned her of a possible alarm like the present.
If it was only Lady Sarah scolding her maid, there was no reason why she should not go back to bed and sleep comfortably, but in spite of this conclusion she continued to kneel by the window, for the remembrance of those two cries was not easily reasoned away. She had not been able to distinguish the words, but the tone could not be accounted for by mere irritability. Mildred had had ample opportunity of studying the different tones of Lady Sarah’s voice, but she had never heard this note before. Cécile had declared that her mistress treated her harshly, but Mildred, like everyone else in the house, had been inclined to think that the opposite view of the situation would be nearer the truth, for the old lady seemed in dread of the clever maid, and fearful of offending her.
The old distrust of the Frenchwoman, which had been temporarily forgotten because of her kindness in the matter of the blue dress, awoke afresh in Mildred’s breast; she bent her head forward and strained her ears to overhear what was going on within that further room. It seemed as if she had been kneeling by the window for a long time, but it was in reality only a few minutes, before suddenly, sharply, the cry rang out again, to be as quickly stifled, but not before the listener had recognised the voice, and the word which it was struggling to say.
“Help! Help!”
It was Lady Sarah’s voice. She was in trouble, someone was ill-treating her, so that she was fain to raise her poor, quivering voice in an appeal for help.
Mildred leapt to her feet, while the blood rushed into her cheeks and her heart began to beat furiously. She was not in the least frightened. What she felt at that moment was something almost like triumph. Lady Sarah had been committed to her charge, and she was now in danger. Here was a chance of redeeming her misdoings of the day before; an opportunity of saving her from threatened danger! Mildred slipped on dressing-gown and slippers and laid her hand on the knob of the door. Before she had time to open it, however, a faint rustling from without attracted her attention; she listened, and could discern the almost imperceptible sound of footsteps coming along the corridor from Lady Sarah’s room, and towards her own. Outside her door they paused, and it seemed as if the beating of her heart must surely betray her presence. But no, they moved on again, the swish of the trailing skirts growing fainter and fainter, until it died away in the distance.
Mildred opened the door and peered cautiously into the passage. All was dark and silent, but on the wall above the staircase a faint light flickered, now here, now there, as if reflected from a candle carried in the hand of someone descending to the hall beneath. Mildred darted in pursuit along the passage, her thick padded slippers aiding her characteristic lightness of movement, so that she reached a point where she could get the desired view without making a sound that could have been heard by the most watchful ears.
It was as she thought. Someone was creeping downstairs, candle in hand, and feeble as the flame was, it was sufficient to light up the sleek head, the slight, sinuous figure of Lady Sarah’s maid.
Mildred pressed her lips together with a look of comprehension, and immediately faced round to retrace her steps with even more speed than before. This time she did not stop short at her own room, but turned into the further passage from which Lady Sarah’s room was entered. The key was in the lock, for Cécile had carefully fastened the old lady in the room before she herself had taken her departure, but Mildred gave a fine smile of contempt as she drew it out, and slipped it into the pocket of her dressing-gown. Another moment and she was within the room, standing by Lady Sarah’s bed and gazing upon the face which lay on the pillow with startled eyes.
At the first glance it seemed altogether strange and unfamiliar. Lady Sarah’s hair was brown and luxurious—these straggling locks were white as snow; Lady Sarah had well-marked brows and regular teeth, but when she lifted the handkerchief which covered the face, the brows were missing and the lips fell in around toothless gums. Mildred stood transfixed, but even as she gazed, she became aware of a faint, sickly odour, which seemed to rise from the handkerchief which she held in her hand. She raised it to her face and shuddered with disgust as the remembrance of a dentist’s operating-room came swiftly to mind. That wicked Cécile! Had she been using something to make Lady Sarah unconscious? And was that the reason why she lay so still, and made no attempt to open her eyes?
Mildred dared not turn up the gas in case the light might be seen from without and excite suspicion, but she peered about the dressing-table, discovered a bottle of salts among the litter of silver ornaments, and with the aid of this and a plenteous sprinkling of water, managed to arouse the old lady to consciousness. The flattened eyelids opened, and Lady Sarah stared upwards with dreamy unrecognising eyes, for in the uncertain light the figure of the girl in her white robes and flowing golden hair seemed more like a heavenly visitant than a flesh-and-blood girl.
“Who,—who,—what are you?” she muttered, and Mildred bent nearer with a reassuring smile.
“It is I—Mildred! Mildred Moore. I heard you call and came to see what was wrong. Don’t be frightened, Lady Sarah. You know me—you know Mildred! I will take care of you—No one shall do you any harm.”
Lady Sarah continued to stare with those dazed, bewildered eyes, then suddenly the light of understanding flashed over her face, her fingers clasped the girl’s arm, and she glanced wildly from side to side.
“Cécile? Cécile?”
“She is not here, Lady Sarah. She has gone downstairs. I saw her go, and came in here at once to look after you.”
“Gone? Downstairs?” Lady Sarah pushed the girl away, and drawing herself up in the bed, began groping hurriedly beneath her pillow. “The key? It is gone—she has taken it! Oh, Mildred, the key of the safe in the strong-room. I had it here. I slept with it under my pillow. She tried to take it from me, and I wouldn’t give it up.—She is a thief, Mildred, a cunning, wicked woman, and when she could not get it from me by force, she put chloroform on that handkerchief and held it over my face. She has accomplices downstairs. They will open the safe and get away before anyone knows they are here. There are valuables of my own there besides Mrs Faucit’s. We shall never see them again, and I was left in charge. The wicked woman! She has been scheming for this. Oh, she is cruel, she is dangerous—she will kill you, child, if she comes back and finds you here.”
Mildred laughed shortly, and threw back her hair with a scornful gesture: “Not she, indeed! She would be far more afraid of me than I should be of her. But what is to be done, Lady Sarah? We must do something quickly; there is no time to be lost. Shall I go and waken Bertha—the servants—Miss Turner?”
“A lot of nervous women! What good would they do? They would go off into hysterics, and give the alarm before you could get downstairs. And if you went down, what could you do, children and girls as you are, against old practised hands? Cécile has never planned this by herself. There are two or three men downstairs, she let out as much in her anger. If you could find James...”
Lady Sarah broke off, and stared into the girl’s face with her haggard eyes. It was an intent, questioning gaze, but the girl did not shrink before it. She nodded her head gravely, as if recognising the force of the suggestion, and accepting the responsibility which it thrust upon her, for James’s room was cut off from the rest of the house, and to reach it it was necessary to descend to the ground floor, and go along the whole length of the passage leading to the servants’ hall.
“Yes, of course; James would be the best!”
“You know where he sleeps?”
“Yes, I know.”
Lady Sarah leant her head against the pillow, trembling violently.
“You would have to go downstairs, to pass within a few yards of the strong-room door—they might see you—and if they did?—No, no! I cannot let you go. Poor child, poor child! Your safety is of more value than anything they can take. It is too great a risk.”
“Dear Lady Sarah, I am not afraid. I will creep along so quietly that they will never hear me, and once down, it will not take me a minute to run along the passage. Don’t try to prevent me, I must go—I must! I couldn’t stay quietly here while Mrs Faucit was being robbed. See! here is the key, Cécile left it in the lock. Get up and fasten yourself in, and don’t open the door until I come back. You won’t be nervous?”
“Not for myself—no, no!—but for you, Mildred. No, you shall not go, I will not allow it! Your mother—”
“Mother would go herself. She is the bravest little creature in the world. I am not afraid. If they see me I will make a dash for it, and scream at the pitch of my voice. You will hear, the others will hear, the whole house will be in a tumult, and they will be glad to escape and let me alone. But I want to take them by surprise, and not let them get away. I’m going now. There is not a minute to waste. Be careful how you shut the door. Don’t be frightened. If you hear no noise you will know all is well.”
Mildred drew the folds of her gown round her, and stepped out into the passage. The lamps were out, but the moonlight poured in by the long windows, and saved her from all danger of stumbling. Round the corner, past the door of her own room, along to the head of the staircase she crept, so far with nothing more than consciousness of excitement and enterprise; but here the dangerous part of her mission began, and she paused for a moment to draw breath and consider how she had best proceed. The staircase descended in flights of six steps at a time, during two of which only she would be within sight from the hall beneath. One of the steps, she knew, creaked. Which was it? In which flight? Stupid not to remember when she had noticed it so many, many times! There was only one thing for it; to tread each step as lightly as possible, and to trust that the thieves might be so busily engaged that they would not notice such a gentle sound. She bent down to fasten the woollen slippers more closely, then slowly, cautiously began the descent. No step creaked beneath her feet, but when she reached the bottom of the second flight of stairs, it was not relief but disappointment which she felt, for she realised that the dangerous point must now be passed, while she was in sight of anyone who might be standing in the hall beneath.
Suppose Cécile had stationed one of her accomplices outside the door of the strong-room, to guard against possible discovery? Suppose with the next step forward she found herself confronted by a burly rascal, ready to spring forward and silence her cries with a heavy hand pressed over her lips? Mildred set her teeth with the old obstinate expression, and stepped determinedly forward. She had known from the outset that there was a certain amount of danger in her mission; she was not to be dismayed by the first alarm. Another moment and she was within sight of the strong-room, to discover, with a thrill of relief, that the thieves were too busily engaged getting together their spoil to have time to play sentry. A faint light shone from within the half-closed door; Mildred held her breath, and could hear a murmur of voices, an occasional clicking, as of steel instruments upon a hard substance.
In the rush of indignation which the sound brought with it she trod less carefully than before, and the creak which followed filled her with dismay. Good heavens! how loudly it sounded in the stillness! She dared not move a step, but stood crouched against the wall, her gown gathered up in her hand, ready at the first sign of an alarm to rush back to the upper floor and rouse the servants by her cries; but there was no cessation of work within the strong-room, the voices still whispered together, the click, click went on as before. What had sounded so sharply in Mildred’s ears had in reality been a very faint sound, scarcely perceptible at a distance of a few yards, and the noise made by their own movements prevented it from reaching the ears of the thieves.
The fact that it had not been noticed gave the girl fresh courage, so that she almost ran down the few steps that remained, her little padded feet falling noiselessly upon the carpet. She stood now in the hall itself; a sharp turn to the right would take her towards James’s bedroom, but before moving forward she turned with instinctive curiosity to cast another glance at the door of the strong-room. It was half-closed,—more than half-closed; the moonlight shone on the polished handle, and on the great brass bolts above and below. If these were once slipped into position it would be an impossible task for those inside the room to make their escape, for the window was small, and protected by iron bars. If the bolts were fastened the thieves would be caught like rats in a trap!
Mildred stood like a figure carved in stone, staring fixedly at the door; her heart was beating like a sledge-hammer, the blood tingled to her finger ends. Supposing she went on and tried to awaken James! His door might be locked; he was an old man, probably a heavy sleeper; by the time he was aroused and had put on his clothes the thieves might have escaped! They were hard at work; at any moment they might come out,—but if those bolts were slipped!—A sudden impulse leapt into the girl’s brain and refused to be shaken off. A dozen steps to the right, a leap forward, one hand on the knob, another raised to shoot the bar of brass into its place, a swift, impetuous movement, and the thing would be done, the thieves caught red-handed, and Mrs Faucit’s treasures saved! “And I can do it,” said Mildred to herself, “as well as James or anyone else; better perhaps, for I am small and light, and they are busy now and unsuspicious. It is the right time, perhaps the only time. I can do it—I will do it, before I get too nervous,—before I have time to think!”
She was nervous enough as it was, poor child, for the fear of failure was in her heart, and a terrible dread of those wicked men; but she had enough self-possession left to know that it must be now or never, and to allow herself no time for wavering.
Cécile and her two accomplices, rifling the safe of its treasures and packing the spoil together in convenient fashion for carrying away, were all unconscious of the white figure in the hall stealing forward step by step, the white face looking out from the veil of golden hair, the outstretched hands creeping nearer and nearer to those two strong brass knobs. A little gurgling sob of emotion swelled in Mildred’s throat at that last crucial moment, her teeth gleamed between her parted lips, then with a spring like that of a wild animal she pounced upon the handle, and with strength born of excitement slammed the door against the lintel, and shot the big brass bar into position. A howl of rage sounded from within as the thieves threw themselves against the door with desperate force, but it was too late. Mildred bent downwards, secured the second fastening, and flew off to awaken James, secure in the knowledge that, rage and struggle as they might, the strong oak door shut them out from escape as surely as the barred window itself.