Girls of the Forest Part 27

Miss Tredgold, therefore, had compa.s.sion on Pauline's late indisposition, and made lessons as easy as possible for her. Thus Pauline had very little to do, except to think of that mystery which was growing thicker and thicker. In one way it helped her own dilemma. With her sisters walking in twos and threes all over the place, it would not be at all remarkable for her to slip down at the appointed hour to the wicket-gate.

Even Penelope would not notice her, so absorbed was she in a.s.sisting Adelaide to make a special present for Pauline.

As the day advanced the little girl became terribly nervous. She felt a sense of irritation when one of her sisters looked at her, whispered to her companion, and then turned away. She would almost have preferred Miss Tredgold to be as stern as she was before. Her whole mind was in a state of tumult. She felt the net closing tighter and tighter around her. Even the birthday was scarcely interesting while such a weight rested on her heart. Miss Tredgold had said during the afternoon as they were all sitting together on the lawn:

"This is to be a great birthday. This is the very first birthday I have spent under your roof. You must all remember it as long as you live."

"Oh, can I ever forget it?" thought poor Pauline. "But Aunt Sophy little knows that I shall not remember it for its kindness and its suns.h.i.+ne and its presents; I shall remember it always because I am such a wicked girl."

Now as evening approached she could not help whispering to herself:

"The net is closing--closing round me. It is gathering me up into a heap.

My legs and arms are tied. Soon the wicked, dreadful thing will press my head down, and I shall be powerless and lost."

She thought out this metaphor, and it seemed to haunt her footsteps.

"It is right that a girl who told a black lie should be cramped up in it," thought Pauline. "Oh, why hadn't I courage to tell Aunt Sophy the truth? She might have been angry, but in the end she would have forgiven me. I would far rather have no notice whatever taken of my birthday than be as miserable as I am now."

"That child isn't well," said Miss Tredgold to Verena, as Pauline was seen slowly creeping in a subdued sort of way in the direction of the lower shrubbery. "Why is she always stealing off by herself? I have a good mind to call her back and take her for a drive. It is a lovely evening, and a drive would do her good."

"So it would, Aunt Sophy. You know how busy all the rest of us are finis.h.i.+ng her presents. I am sure she would love to drive with you, for I think she is getting very fond of you."

"Perhaps, my dear; but I have made up my mind not to have favorites. As long as you are all good I shall love you all.--Pauline--yes, Verena, I shall offer her a drive--Pauline, come here."

Pauline hated to be called back, but she could not do otherwise than obey. She approached lingeringly.

"Yes, Aunt Sophy," she said.

"Would you like to take a drive with me? We might go and find out how soon Peas-blossom and Lavender will be ready to come to their new home."

At another time such a request on the part of Miss Tredgold would have enraptured Pauline; but she knew that it only wanted five minutes to six, and she doubted if Nancy would consent to be kept waiting long.

"No," she answered slowly; "my head aches. Please, I would rather not take a drive."

She did not wait for Miss Tredgold's response, but continued her slow walk.

"The poor child is certainly ill," said the good lady. "If she continues to look as poorly and as sadly out of sorts next week I shall take her to the seaside."

"Will you, Aunt Sophy? How lovely! Do you know that Paulie and I have never been to the sea? We do so long to see it!"

"Well, my dear, I shall take you all presently, but I can't say when.

Now, as Pauline does not want to drive with me, I shall go into the house and finish some of my arrangements."

Miss Tredgold went indoors, and Verena joined Briar and Patty, who were in a great state of excitement.

Meanwhile Pauline had reached the wicket-gate. She opened it and went out. Nancy was waiting for her. Nancy's cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright. She looked as if she had been quarreling with somebody. Pauline knew that look well. Nancy's two friends Becky and Amy were standing at a little distance. There was a small governess-cart drawn up not far away, and Becky was stroking the nose of a rough little Forest pony.

"Father gave me the cart and pony this morning," said Nancy. "There's nothing he wouldn't do for me. The pony and cart aren't much, perhaps, but still it is fun to have them to fly over the place. Well, and how goes her little high-and-mightiness? Frumpy, I can see. Grumpy, I can guess. Now, is Pauline glad to see poor old Nance--eh?"

"Of course, Nancy; but I have come to say----"

"We'll have no 'buts,' darling, if you please."

"I can't come to the picnic, Nancy; I really cannot."

"How white poor little Dumpy looks! Wants some one to cheer her up, or she'll be dumped and frumped and grumped all in one. Now, darling, I'm going to put my arm round your waist. I am going to feel your little heart go pit-a-pat. You shall lean against me. Isn't that snug? Doesn't dear old Nancy count for something in your life?"

"Of course you do, Nancy. I am fond of you. I have always said so,"

replied Pauline.

"Then you will yield, darling, to the inevitable."

"I am yielding to it now," replied Pauline. "I am not going with you because I can't."

"And you are going with me because you must," Nancy responded. "For listen, Pauline. Although I am affectionate, I can be--oh, yes--dangerous.

And if you don't come, why, I can keep my word. Wednesday is your birthday. I wonder when the crown of the day will come?"

"What do you mean?"

"Why, there always is a crown to a birthday. There is a time, either in the evening or in the morning, when the queen receives the homage of her subjects. She gets her presents, and there are pretty speeches made to her, and she has her dainty feast and her crown of flowers. Yes, that time is the crown of the day, and that is just the moment when the poor little queen shall topple down. The throne shall be knocked from under her; the presents will vanish; the sovereignty will cease to exist. Poor, poor little queen without a kingdom! How will you like it, Paulie? Do you think you could bear it? To have no kingdom and no crown and no presents and no love, and to be bitterly disgraced as well! How will you like it, Paulie?"

"I know that you can do all that you say," answered Pauline. "I know you can be dreadful, and everything is against me. You can ruin me if you like, but I want you not to do it, Nancy."

"And if you don't come with us I want to do it, dear; and I rather think that my will is stronger than yours."

"But if it kills me?"

"It won't do that, Paulie. You will feel bad, and, oh! as though somebody had crushed you; but you won't die. There's only one way out."

Pauline was silent.

"It is quite an easy way," continued Nancy. "It is easy and safe, and there's a deal of fun to be got out of it. You have got to come to the picnic. Once you are there you will enjoy yourself tremendously. I promise to get you home in the morning. You will come, and you will bring two of your sisters with you. Two will be enough. I have yielded that point. You will meet us here, at this very spot, at eleven o'clock on Wednesday night. We are going some distance away, so that no one in the neighborhood of The Dales need hear our singing and our fun and our jollity. We will come back before daybreak and deposit you just outside the wicket-gate. You may think it very unpleasant just now, and very mean and all the rest, but it is the only possible way to save yourself. You must come to the picnic, and bring two of your sisters."

"But suppose they won't come?"

"They will if you manage things properly. It needn't be Verena. I expect Verena, for all she is so soft and fair, is a tough nut to crack; but you can bring Briar and Patty. My father will be quite satisfied if three of you are present. The fact is, he is awfully hurt at the thought of your all thinking yourselves too good for us. He says that the Dales and the Kings were always friends. My father is a dear old man, but he has his cranks, and he has made up his mind that come you must, or he'll make mischief. It won't be only me; it will be my father as well. He will appear at The Dales, and if I go straight to Miss Tredgold, he will go straight to Mr. Dale. Now, what do you think of that? I am determined to have you for reasons of my own, and I shall poke up my father to do no end of mischief if you don't appear. Now don't be a goose. Get up a little dash of courage and a little dash of your old spirit and everything will be as straight as possible."

Pauline stood quite still. Nancy danced in front of her. Nancy's face was almost malicious in its glee. Pauline looked at it as a child will look when despair clutches at her heart.

"I didn't know--I couldn't guess--that you were like that," she said in a sort of whisper.

"Couldn't you, dear little duckledoms? Well, you do know it now; and you know also how to act. Don't you see by the lines round my mouth and the expression in my eyes that I can be hard as hard when I please? I am going to be very hard now. My honor is involved in this. I promised that you would be there. There are presents being bought for you. Come you must; come you shall."

Pauline stood quite silent; then she flung her arms to her sides and faced her tormentor.

"There was a time," she said slowly, "when I loved you, Nancy. But I don't love you now. By-and-by, perhaps, you will be sorry that you have lost my love, for I think--yes, I think it is the sort that doesn't come back. I don't love you to-night because you are cruel, because you have already got me into a sc.r.a.pe, and you want to push me into a yet deeper one. I am not the sort of girl you think me. However grand and stately and like a lady Aunt Sophia is--and compared to you and me, Nancy, she is very stately and very grand and very n.o.ble--I would not give you up. Aunt Sophy is a lady with a great brave heart, and her ideas are up-in-the-air ideas, and she doesn't know anything about mean and low and vulgar things. I'd have clung to you, Nancy, and always owned you as my friend, even if Aunt Sophy had taken me into good society. Yes, I'd have stuck to you whatever happened; but now"--Pauline pressed her hand to her heart--"everything is altered. You are cruel, and I don't love you any more. But I am in such trouble, and so completely in despair, that I will come to the picnic; and if I can bring two of the girls, I will. There is nothing more to say. You may expect us at eleven o'clock on Wednesday night."

"But there is more to say," cried Nancy.