CHAPTER XXI
A WOUNDED SKYLARK
Miss Haldane was worried, perturbed. Her usually cheerful old face was wrinkled into lines of perplexity, her eyes were anxious.
Something was wrong at the White House. Dickie had slept peacefully throughout the night, and with the extraordinary recuperation of children, had demanded bread and milk on awaking. It was perfectly natural to suppose that an air of jubilation should prevail. Yet Lady Anne was pale, silent, aloof; Millicent Sheldon slightly cold and frigid. What in the name of wonder did it signify? Vaguely Miss Haldane connected the extraordinary atmosphere with the Piper. It was true that he had been accountable, under Providence, for Dickie’s marvellous recovery, yet Miss Haldane distinctly regarded him as a bird of ill-omen, and in her heart bitterly regretted that necessity had called him to the house.
Throughout the day she fidgeted and fluttered interiorly, keeping sharp and anxious watch on Anne’s pale and almost stern face, without, however, in the least appearing to do so. At tea-time she found herself alone in the drawing-room with Millicent, Anne being in Dickie’s room.
Then Miss Haldane could contain her anxiety no longer. She disliked Millicent Sheldon, but it was a case of any port in a storm. Having poured out tea and handed Millicent a cup, she prefaced her first remark by a slight and nervous cough.
“Anne looks very pale,” she said tentatively. “I hoped to see her looking better now our anxiety is practically at an end.”
“Yes,” said Millicent, taking a sip of tea.
This was unsatisfactory. Miss Haldane returned to the charge more openly.
“I hope,” she said, “that nothing has worried her?”