“The pump!” Mildred’s heart gave a leap of apprehension. She seized the child by the arm and held him firmly until he had answered her question. “What pump? What do you mean, Erroll?”
“Wat zo pumped ze water wif, on ze window!” said Erroll pleasantly.
He evidently had no idea that Mildred would be discomposed by the intelligence, and was a good deal astonished at the hasty manner in which she shook him off and resumed her walk to the house.
Here, indeed, was a changed position. She was going to be scolded, not thanked—called to account for misdeeds, not praised for valour. Mildred pressed her lips together, and her eyes shone with a gleam of anger.
The more exciting events of the last two days had thrown the picnic into the background, so that she had almost forgotten the unfortunate incident to which Erroll had referred. It had troubled her greatly at the time, but since then she had had an opportunity of “making up”, which should surely have condoned any previous offence. “Lady Sarah need not have said anything about it; even if she were told. She might have forgiven a little thing like that, when I have perhaps saved her life,” she told herself angrily. “I believe she is glad to have something to blame me for, so that she may avoid saying anything nice or grateful!”
Mildred felt thoroughly cross and out of sorts, as was not altogether unnatural under the circumstances. When one has been treated as a heroine for a couple of days, it comes as an unpleasant shock to find one’s self suddenly dragged down from the pedestal and compelled to appear in the character of a culprit. Mildred felt it very hard indeed, and the softened feeling with which she had thought of the old lady during the last forty-eight hours vanished at once, and gave place to the old bitter enmity.
Lady Sarah had seen the girl’s encounter with Erroll, so that she was at no loss to understand the sudden change in her expression, as she drew near. They looked at one another in silence for several minutes—Lady Sarah with her brows drawn together, yet on the whole more anxious than angry; Mildred erect as a dart, her head thrown back in defiant fashion.
“Is this true, may I ask, what the child tells me—that you played the hose on my bedroom window the other morning, in order to make me believe it was raining?”
Lady Sarah sat upright on her chair, her hands clasped together on her lap. The morning light gave a livid hue to the worn features, the bones in her neck seemed more prominent than ever. “But it is not my fault if she is old,” was Mildred’s obstinate comment. “She can’t blame me for that, I suppose?”
“Yes, it’s quite true.”