“Nothing of the sort. I am not quite paralysed yet. Say no more on that score, if you please. I am able and willing, and shall be glad of the chance of seeing the place; but, of course if you prefer the governess—”
What could be said in answer to such a question as this? The usages of polite society forbidding a candid avowal of the truth, Bertha could only protest feebly in a weak, broken-spirited voice.
“Very well, then, we will consider it settled. We do not leave the house until half-past eleven, by that time I shall see what the day is going to do. It is beginning to cloud over, and I don’t like the look of the sky. If it shows any disposition to rain I shall certainly not risk an attack of rheumatism by walking on damp grass, but if it keeps fine I shall be ready when the carriage comes round. Miss Turner will no doubt be very glad to stay at home.”
She swept from the room, and the scene which followed can be better imagined than described. Mildred paced up and down, her cheeks aflame, her lips pressed together to keep back a torrent of angry words. Lois had hard work not to cry outright, while Bertha sat down on a chair, and clasped her hands in despair.
“I know what it means!—I know what it means! She went with us once before. She made me stay beside her all day long, and wear mufflers round my neck; and sit inside the coach coming home. She wouldn’t let me have an ice at lunch, or sail on the lake—or—or—do anything nice! I’d just as soon give it up at once, and stay at home. It will be all spoiled! I sha’n’t enjoy it a bit!”
She was very near tears herself, but for once in her life Mildred made no response. There was a strange, half-triumphant smile upon her lips, and she continued to pace up and down the room, and to take no part in her friend’s lamentations.
By and by Bertha and Lois went away, with dejected mien, to attend to the various duties with which they had been charged. Bertha to the nursery, to give orders that some little friends should be invited to take tea with the children, Lois to arrange the basket of flowers which the gardener brought up to the house. About ten o’clock the sky clouded over in a threatening manner, and it seemed as if Lady Sarah’s prophecy was about to be fulfilled, but when the carriage came round to the door at half-past eleven, the sun was shining again in all its splendour, and the air felt warm and fragrant.
Neither of the girls had seen anything of Mildred since parting from her in the breakfast-room, but at the last moment she came strolling leisurely across the hall, looking such a picture of youth and beauty as made them hold their breath in admiration. The blue dress looked as fresh and dainty as if it was being worn for the first time, a soft white sash was twisted round the waist, and a bunch of ox-eye daisies tucked into the folds of muslin round the neck. The golden hair fell in wavy masses down her back, and the shady hat dipped forward over her charming face. The Dean’s daughters looked colourless and insignificant beside her, but they were too radiantly happy to care about their own appearance, for it was Miss Turner who came forward to seat herself beside them in the carriage, while Lady Sarah stood within the porch speaking her farewells in tones of ill-concealed irritation.
“Most rash and foolish I call it! I heard the rain distinctly, I tell you, and not satisfied with hearing, I put my head out of the window and felt several drops upon my face. Have you taken umbrellas and mackintoshes?—No? Now, my dear Lois, pray, don’t make objections to everything I say. Your mother is away, and I feel the responsibility on my shoulders. Miss Turner, will you be good enough to see that umbrellas and mackintoshes are taken, and good thick cloaks in case of cold? You will be starved to death on the coach coming home.”
The echo of the fretful voice followed the carriage as it drove away from the door, and as Bertha waved her hand, a shadow of compunction fell over her face.