“Surely, my dear: and thank you for telling me so long a story. I wanted it at first hands and I wanted Gwendolyn to hear it, too. Good night and a happy, happy evening. It’s really your own party, I hear; begged by yourself from the Bishop for your schoolmates’ pleasure. I trust the lion’s share of that pleasure may be your own.”
As Dorothy left the room, with her graceful farewell curtsey, the girl on the bed turned back toward her mother and lifted a tear-wet face.
“Why, Gwen, dearest, surely she didn’t make you nervous again, did she? She described your accident so simply and in such a matter of course way. She seemed to blame the whole matter on herself; first her discovery of the waterfall, then her falling asleep. She is a brave, unselfish girl. Hoping you ‘would forgive’ her—for saving your life!”
“Oh, mother, don’t! You can’t guess how that hurts me. ‘Forgive her’! Can she ever in this world forgive me!” And again the invalid’s face was hidden in the covers, while her body shook with sobs; that convinced Lady Jane that nobody, not even her anxious self, knew how seriously ill her daughter was.
“My child, my child, don’t grieve so! It is all past and gone. I made a mistake in forcing you to meet the companion of your disaster and hearing the story from her, but please do forget it for my sake. You are well—or soon will be; and the sooner you gain some strength, you’ll be as happy as ever.”
“I shall never be happy again—never. I want to go away from here. I never want to see Oak Knowe again!” wailed Gwendolyn with fresh tears.
“Go away? Why, darling, you have always been happier here than in any other place. At home you complain of your brothers, and you think my home rules harder than the Lady Principal’s. Besides, I’ve just settled the boys at school and with you here, I felt free to make all my plans for a winter abroad. Don’t be nonsensical. Don’t spoil everything by foolishness concerning an accident that ended so well. I don’t understand you, dearest, I certainly do not.”
Assembly Hall had been cleared for the entertainment. Most of the chairs had been removed, only a row of them being left around the walls for the benefit of the invited guests. These were the friends and patrons of the school from the near by city and from the country houses round about.
Conspicuous among these was old John Gilpin in his Sunday suit, his long beard brushed till each hair hung smooth and separate, his bald head polished till it shone, and himself the most ill at ease of all the company. Beside him sat the little widow, Robin’s mother; without whom, John had declared, he would “not stir hand nor hoof” toward any such frivolity, and the good Dame abetting him in the matter. She had said:
“No, Mrs. Locke, no more he shall. I can’t go, it’s bread-settin’ night, and with my being so unwieldy and awkward like—I’d ruther by far stay home. Robin will be all right. The dear lad’s become the very apple of my eye and I e’enamost dread his gettin’ well enough to go to work again. A bit of nonsense, like this of Dorothy’s gettin’-up, ’ll do you more good nor medicine. I’ve said my say and leave it said. If John could go in his clean smock, he’d be all right, even to face that Lady Principal that caught him cavortin’ like a silly calf. But ’twould be an obligement to me if you’d go along and keep him in countenance.”