Her voice sank till I could scarcely catch the last words.
“I will try,” said I softly. “And, oh, Mrs. Rayner, shall I tell Sam to take the dead leaves away in a wheelbarrow? I am sure it can’t be wholesome to have them so close to your window.”
“No, no, leave them—never mind,” said she hurriedly. “You must be in the water. You will catch cold. Go—Heaven bless you!”
She shut down the window in a frightened way, and disappeared into the room. I could not see in, for the window-sill was some eight or ten inches above my head. I turned and splashed my way back, with my teeth chattering, to the house, and changed my wet shoes and stockings, half crying for pity for the poor, helpless, forlorn lady for whom I could do so little.
At tea-time she came into the dining room, and, as Sarah was there, I practised the innocent deception of pretending not to have seen her before that day. I thought it better that the lynx-eyed guardian should not discover that I had found a way of communicating privately with her unlucky charge. So I said again at tea-time that I had had a letter from Mr. Rayner, and that he thought that on Saturday she had better move into the spare-room.
“Saturday!” interrupted Sarah sharply.
“Yes,” said I, rather frightened at telling such a story. “Do you think you would like to go to-morrow, or would you rather go to-night, Mrs. Rayner?” I asked gently.
“To-morrow,” said she, with a steady look which I took as an acknowledgment; and I turned to Sarah.
“I will answer for it to Mr. Rayner, if there has been any mistake,” I said, as modestly as I could, for it was an awkward thing to have to give orders before the mistress of the house, however tottering her reason might be.
“Very well, miss,” said Sarah, to my surprise.