A Girl in Spring-Time

by Mrs. George de Horne Vaizey

“I was thinking how strange it was that we should be such good friends, when we used to dislike each other so much! You were cross to me,—I was rude to you, and we were always disagreeing! I think I annoyed you the very first night I arrived. You seemed vexed because I was late.”

“I never disliked you, child. If I seemed to do so, it was because I have grown into the unfortunate habit of fault-finding. On the contrary there is something about you which has always attracted me. I don’t know what it is—something in your voice, your laugh, your movements, which brings back memories of my youth. What a long, long way off it seems!—like another life,—and of all that large family of boys and girls there is not one left alive but myself! I am a lonely old woman, Mildred!”

“But there is no need that you should be! There are so many people in the world who need a friend, and you are rich—you can do kind things every day in the year! I have often thought how nice it would be to be a dear old lady with curls, and a beautiful big house, and lots of money. It is one of my castles in the air. I would be a sort of fairy godmother to poor people; help struggling young geniuses, pretty girls who had to work for their living, and old women in dingy lodgings. If I had no people of my own, I would go outside to find them, for I couldn’t live alone, with no one to love me, and nothing to think of but myself! I couldn’t do it!”

Mildred looked at Lady Sarah with wistful eyes, as if demanding sympathy for the very thought. She did not know that older people than herself had long been struggling for courage to impress these views of life upon her companion, and was guiltless of pointing a moral. Lady Sarah listened, however, and pondered on her words without being in the least offended. She was never offended at anything that Mildred said or did in these latter days; she seemed to have opened her heart to the girl with an unreserved affection which made Mrs Faucit very hopeful of the future.

She said as much in the letter to Mrs Moore which accompanied Lady Sarah’s invitation.

I hope very much that you will allow Mildred to accept Lady Sarah’s invitation, she wrote, for I believe the friendship which has grown up between them will be of mutual benefit. Lady Sarah has an unfortunate manner, but I have always believed in her warmth of heart, and she has fallen deeply in love with your dear, bright girl. They were not at all good friends at first, as you will doubtless have heard, but circumstances have drawn them together, and I can see that each is already beginning to exercise a beneficial influence over the character of the other. Mildred’s sunshiny influence is smoothing the wrinkles from the poor old lady’s face, and the knowledge that one so old and frail relies upon her for comfort, will, I am sure, overcome the temptation to hastiness which she is ever bemoaning. I don’t wonder at Lady Sarah’s infatuation, for we are all in love with the dear child. She has been the life of our quiet house. I hope we may see much of her in the future.

Mrs Moore received this letter, and the invitation which accompanied it, one hot afternoon as she sat in the fever room with her patient. Robbie was an invalid no longer, except in name—he was up and clothed and in his right mind; able to amuse himself by painting frescoes on the wall, and to scrub his obstinate little heels with pumice stone, after the morning and evening baths. Mrs Moore read her letters through once, twice, and yet again; then she laid them down upon the table, took her handkerchief from her pocket, and very quietly and deliberately began to cry.

She was a merry little mother as a rule, in spite of her anxieties, and had played the mountebank for Robbie’s benefit with such success during the last few weeks, that he was aghast at the sudden change of mood.

He gave a roar like a wounded bull, and rushing forward, burrowed his head on her knee.

“Don’t ky! don’t ky!” he cried, “I’ll never do it again! never do it again!” for conscience pricked concerning a dozen mischievous freaks, and he was convinced that it was his own wickedness which had brought about this outburst of distress.