She arrived at James’s room just in time to meet that faithful servant hurrying forth with a greatcoat fastened over his night attire, and while he rushed across the garden to arouse the coachman, she turned back into the hall, and began to beat a wild tattoo upon the gong.
When Bertha came rushing downstairs a moment later, followed by a flock of terrified women-servants, she was horrified by the sight which she beheld. There stood Mildred in her white dressing-gown, her hair hung round her face in wild confusion, her eyes gleamed, her long arms swung the sticks through the air, and brought them down upon the gong with a fierceness of triumph, which had in it something uncanny to the gentle onlooker. She looked strangely unlike Mildred Moore—pretty, merry Mildred, so ready to tease and plague, to kiss and make friends, and tease again all in a moment. She was so carried away by the terrible excitement of the moment that she had no eyes for what was going on around, and seemed perfectly oblivious of the fact that her friends were standing by her side.
It flashed through Bertha’s mind that Mildred was going mad, and she seized hold of the swinging arms in an agony of appeal.
“Mildred, Mildred—don’t! Oh, what are you doing? We are all here; I am here—Bertha! What has happened? what is the matter? Don’t stare like that, you frighten me! You understand what I am saying, don’t you, Mildred, dear?”
“I—I—I,” began Mildred blankly. She turned her head and looked at the strong-room door, before which James stood on guard, waiting the return of the coachman with the policemen; then at the group of women-servants huddled on the stairs; last of all in her friend’s face, white and anxious, and overflowing with sympathy. “You understand me, don’t you, Mil?” Bertha repeated gently, and at that Mildred’s tense attitude relaxed. She put her hand to her head as one awakening from a dream, and clutching Bertha by the arms, burst into a flood of tears.
“Take me away!” she sobbed; “take me away!” and Bertha led her forward into the breakfast-room, followed by a murmur of sympathy from the onlookers.
James had found time to give a brief account of what had taken place to his fellow-servants, and they were filled with wonder and admiration.
“To come down all by herself, in the dead of night—that child! She is brave and no mistake! I always liked her—she has such pretty ways of her own,—but I never thought she would come out like this. She seemed so careless-like! Poor child, to see her beating that gong! She didn’t know what she was doing. It’s enough to upset anyone. To fasten that heavy door herself!”
Then the conversation took another turn, and busied itself in denouncing Cécile and her villainies.