“Don’t touch it,” she cried, “if you—” but the words died upon her lips, for as she spoke the cap fell to the ground in the sort of little struggle there had been, as poor Pleasance, not really understanding what Mary meant, had kept her hold for a moment or two. The cap fell to the ground—unluckily they were standing close to the fire-place—and when Mary stooped to pick it up she saw that the feather had dropped out, and lay where it had fallen, just within the fender. The fire was not yet lighted, but there must have been a little coal or cinder dust about, for when Mary, scarcely daring to breathe, stooped again for her treasure, she saw that the mischief was done—a black or grey spot now sullied the feather’s perfect whiteness.
And, without a word of explanation to Pleasance, who stood there in half-stupefied astonishment, the little girl burst into tears.
“Miss Mary!” she exclaimed at last; “my dear, I am so sorry. I had no idea that you cared about the feather so much. I can get you another like it, I daresay, or very likely the spot will rub off,” and she held out her hand for it.
“Oh no, no,” sobbed Mary, “you could never get another like it—never; and I am sure the spot won’t rub off.”
All the same, she drew out her handkerchief and tried with great care what she could do. But in vain; the poor feather’s perfect spotlessness was gone.
“It was my own fault—all my own fault,” murmured Mary to herself, “that is why it won’t rub off. Oh dear, oh dear! Just at the last.”
And though after a while she dried her eyes and tried to look as usual, telling Pleasance she was sorry she had been so cross, she looked a very unhappy little girl when at last she set off for a walk, leaving the feather in its first home—the inside of Michael’s letter, which was lying on the table.
She would not, she felt she could not, go to the forest, and it was getting late. The misfortune to the feather and her own crying had wasted time, the finest part of the afternoon was over already. So she went out at the front gate and trotted down the road, in a kind of “duty” way that was very dull and depressing. The sky and the look of things in general seemed to have caught her sadness, for there was a dark blue-grey look in one direction which cast a strange kind of shadow over all, and every trace of sunshine had gone.
Miss Verity had driven out by herself that afternoon, to see the old lady-friend who lived at some distance, and who, she had heard, was more ill and weak than usual, and it suddenly struck Mary that if she walked on much farther she might meet her godmother coming home. She did not wish this, as she felt sure that her eyes were still red and swollen, and she did not want to be asked, even by kind Miss Verity, “what she had been crying about.”
So she turned and walked home again, without any adventure except passing two country people, who were saying to each other that it was blowing up for snow.