To-day Dot was at home, and in the important position of being about to set out upon a journey. She was to start early in the morning and to go direct to the Redfern railway station.
Mr. Bruce had gone to town to draw a five guinea cheque for his eldest daughter. He also had to do a little shopping on her account. All his instructions were written down in Dot's fair round hand-writing upon a piece of foreign notepaper and slipped into his waistcoat pocket.
For those who are at all curious to know what the items were we will steal a look at the paper—
- Pair of white canvas shoes, size 2.
- One cake of blanco (for cleaning them with).
- Two pairs of black silk shoe laces—not boot laces—(all of those things at the same shop).
- 1¼ yds. of white chiffon (very thin—for a veil).
- 1 bunch of scarlet poppies—just common ones (both of these at same shop—draper's).
- At a chemist's: sponge (6d.), tooth-brush (9d.), Packet of violet powder (6d.).
Mrs. Bruce was letting down Dot's dresses, and altering a pretty blue silk evening blouse (bought ready made). Cyril had cleaned her shoes and the family portmanteau, an ugly black thing, and run half a dozen errands grumblingly—all for Dot!
Betty was locked in her room in disgrace, for running away to seek her fortune. No one was allowed to speak to her, even Baby's "Bet, Bet," was sternly hushed; two slices of bread and a glass of water were placed outside her door three times a day; three times a day she was permitted to walk for five minutes, each time alone in the garden, then back again to her room.
This state of things, which had commenced on Wednesday morning, was, if Betty showed proper penitence and meekness, to terminate on Saturday morning.
Yet even prisoner Betty was employed on Dot's behalf. She had Dot's stockings to mend, and to add insignificant things like buttons and tapes and hooks and eyes to those of her garments which had an insufficiency of such trifles. And she was sewing away industriously as she brooded over her woes.
Dot herself was unpacking and packing up. Unpacking all her exercise books, and notebooks, and stacks of neat examination papers; her lesson books and Czerney's 101 Exercises for the Pianoforte; her sewing samples and wool-work; her study of a head in crayon, and waratahs and flannel flowers in oils, and peep of Sydney Harbour in water colours.
"When I come home again," she told herself gravely, "I will arrange life: I'll practise at least two hours every morning; I'll do some solid good reading every day—some one like Shakespeare or Milton or Bacon! I'll paint every afternoon. I really have a talent for landscapes. And I'll finish writing my novel. For some things I'm really glad I've finished learning."