SUSY’S FEVERISH DESIRE.
Hudson was waiting for Marjorie when
she came back to her bedroom.
“I don’t know what to
do, miss,” she said to the little girl.
“I’m aware it’s Mr. Wilton’s
orders, but still, what am I to do with the poor woman?
She’s crying fit to break her heart, and it do
seem cruel not to sympathize with her. It’s
a shame to worry you, Miss Maggie, but you’re
a very understanding little lady for your years.”
“Well, Hudson, I’ll help
if I can,” said Marjorie. “Who’s
the poor woman? and what is she crying about?”
“It’s Mrs. Collins, my
dear. It seems that Susy isn’t going on
at all satisfactory. The doctor says she has
a kind of low fever, no way catching, but very bad
for the poor little girl. Susy cries quite piteous
to see Miss Ermengarde, and it does seem cruel that
under the circumstances there should be distinctions
in rank.”
“But Ermie is away,” said
Marjorie. “Susy can’t see her, however
much she wishes to. Did you tell Mrs. Collins
that?”
“I did, dear, and she said she
daren’t go back to the poor child with a message
of that sort; that she was so fretted, and contrary,
and feverish as it was, that she quite feared what
would happen.”
“But what’s to be done,
Hudson? Ermie really is far away, and nothing,
nothing that we can do can bring her back to-night.”
“I know, Miss Maggie, but poor
women with only children are apt to be unreasonable,
and Mrs. Collins does go on most bitter. She says
she knows there’s a secret on Susy’s mind,
and she feels certain sure that the child will never
take a turn for the better until she can let out what’s
preying on her. Mrs. Collins is certain that Miss
Ermengarde knows something about Susy, and that they
have had some words between them, and she says there’ll
be no rest for the poor little creature until she
and Miss Ermie have made whatever is wrong straight.”
Marjorie stood looking very thoughtful.
“It’s late, my dear, and
you’re tired,” said the servant. “It
seems a shame to worry you. Hadn’t you
better go to bed?”
“Oh, don’t, Hudson,”
said Marjorie. “What does it matter about
my going to bed, or even if I am a bit tired?
I’m thinking about poor Susy, and about Ermie.
I’ve got a thought-I wonder-Hudson,
I wish father hadn’t said so firmly that Ermengarde
was not to see Susy Collins.”
“Well, missy, my master is in
the right. Little ladies do themselves no good
when they make friends and equals of children like
Susy. They do themselves no good, and they do
still more harm to the poor children, whose heads
get filled up with vain thoughts. But that’s
neither here nor there, Miss Maggie, in the present
case. Illness alters everything, and levels all
ranks, and if Miss Ermengarde was at home, she ought
to go and see Susy, and that without a minute’s
delay, and your good father would be the very first
to tell her so, Miss Maggie.”
“Then I know what I’ll
do,” said Marjorie. “I’ll go
straight away this minute to Miss Nelson, and ask
her if I may go and see Susy. I dare say
she’ll let me-I’ll try what
I can do, anyhow. You run down and tell Mrs.
Collins, Hudson. I’m not Ermie, but I dare
say Susy would rather see me than no one.”
Miss Nelson was writing letters in
her own room, when Marjorie with a flushed eager face
burst in upon her. She made her request with great
earnestness. Miss Nelson listened anxiously.
“I will see Mrs. Collins,”
she said at last. The poor woman was brought
up to the governess’s room, and at sight of her
evident grief Miss Nelson at once saw that she must
act on her own independent judgment, and explain matters
by and by to Mr. Wilton.
“Ermengarde is away,”
she said to Mrs. Collins, “but if the case is
really serious, she can be sent for, and in the meantime
I will take Marjorie myself to the cottage, and if
your little girl wishes to see her, she can do so.
Fetch your hat, Marjorie, dear, and a warm wrap, for
the dews are heavy to-night.”
Marjorie was not long in getting herself
ready, and twenty minutes later the poor anxious mother
and her two visitors found themselves in the cottage.
“Look here, Mrs. Collins,”
said Marjorie, the moment they entered the house.
“I want you not to tell Susy I have come.
I’d like to slip upstairs very gently, and just
see if I can do anything for her. I’ll
promise to be awfully quiet, and not to do her a scrap
of harm.”
Mrs. Collins hesitated for a moment.
Marjorie was not the Miss Wilton Susy was asking for,
and she feared exciting the poor refractory little
girl by not carrying out her wishes exactly. But
as Susy’s tired feverish voice was distinctly
heard in the upper room, and as Miss Nelson said,
“I think you can fully trust Marjorie; she is
a most tender little nurse,” Mrs. Collins yielded.
“You must do as you think best, miss,”
she said.
Marjorie did not wait for another
word. She ran lightly up the narrow stairs, and
entered the room where the sick child was sitting up
in bed.
“Is that you, Miss Ermie?”
said Susy. “I thought you were never coming-never.
I thought you had forsook me, just when I am so bad,
and like to die.”
“It’s me, Susy,”
said Marjorie, coming forward. “Ermengarde’s
away, so I came.”
“Oh, I don’t want you, Miss Marjorie,”
said Susan.
She flung herself back on the bed,
and taking up the sheet threw it over her face.
Marjorie went up to the bedside.
“There ain’t a bit of
use in your staying, Miss Marjorie,” continued
Susy, in a high-pitched, excited voice. “You
don’t know nothing ’bout me and the picture.
You ain’t no good at all.”
Marjorie’s heart gave a great
bound. The picture! That must surely mean
the broken miniature. “Basil, dear Basil,”
whispered the little girl, “you may not have
to live down all the horrid, wicked, cruel suspicion
after all.”
“I wish you’d go away,
Miss Marjorie,” said Susy from under the bedclothes.
“I tell you miss, you can’t do me one bit
of good. You don’t know nothing about me
and the picture.”
“But I can hold your hand, Susy,”
said Marjorie; “and if your hand is hot, mine
is lovely and cool. If you’re restless,
let me hold your hand. I often do so to baby
if he can’t sleep, and it quiets him ever so.”
Susy did not respond for a minute
or two, but presently her poor little hot hand was
pushed out from under the bedclothes. Marjorie
grasped it firmly. Then she took the other hand,
and softly rubbed the hot, dry fingers. Susy
opened her burning eyes, flung aside the sheet, and
looked at her quiet little visitor.
“You comfort me a bit, miss,”
she said. “I don’t feel so mad with
restlessness as I did when you came in.”
“That’s because I have
got soothing hands,” said Marjorie. “Some
people have, and I suppose I’m one. The
children at home always go to sleep when I hold their
hands. Don’t you think you could shut your
eyes and try to go to sleep now, Susy?”
“Oh, miss, there’s a weight
on my mind. You can’t sleep when you’re
ill and like to die, and there’s a weight pressing
down on you.”
“I don’t believe you’ll
die, Susy; and if you’ve a weight on your mind,
you can tell God about it, you know.”
“No, miss, God’s awful angry with me.”
“He’s never angry with
us, if we are sorry about things,” answered
Marjorie. “He’s our Father, and fathers
always forgive their children when they are sorry.
If you are sorry, Susy, you can tell God, your Father,
and he’ll be sure to forgive you at once.”
“I’m sorry enough, miss,
but I think Miss Ermie is as bad as me. I’d
never have done it, never, but for Miss Ermie.
I think it’s mean of her to keep away from me
when I’m ill.”
“Ermengarde is not at home,
Susy; but if you want her very badly, if you really
want her for anything important, I will write to her,
and she shall come home-I know she will.”
“Thank you, Miss Marjorie; I
didn’t think nothing at all about what I did
when I was well, but now it seems to stay with me day
and night, and I’m sorry I was so spiteful and
mean to Miss Nelson. But it wasn’t my
fault, miss-no, that it wasn’t-that
the picture was broke. What is it, Miss Marjorie?
How you start.”
“Nothing,” said Marjorie;
“only perhaps, Susy, you’d rather tell
Ermie the rest; and she shall come back; I
promise you that that she shall come back.”
“Thank you, Miss Marjorie; you
are real good, and you comfort me wonderfully when
you hold my hands.”
“Well, I wish you’d let
me put your sheets a little straight; there, that’s
better. Now I’m going to turn your pillow.
And Susy, do let me push all that tangled hair out
of your eyes. Now I’m going to kneel here,
and you must shut your eyes. I promise you shall
see Ermie. Good-night, Susy; go to sleep.”
Miss Nelson waited quietly in the
little kitchen downstairs. The voices in Susy’s
sickroom ceased to murmur; presently Mrs. Collins
stole softly upstairs. She returned in a few minutes
accompanied by Marjorie. There were tears in
the poor woman’s eyes.
“My Susy’s in a blessed,
beautiful sleep!” she exclaimed. “And
it’s all owing to this dear little lady; may
Heaven reward her! I don’t know how to
thank you, Miss Marjorie. Susy hasn’t been
in a blessed healthful sleep like that since she broke
her leg. It puts heart into me to see the child
looking quiet and peaceful once again. And now
I’ll go upstairs and sit with her.”
Miss Nelson and Marjorie walked quickly
home together. When they reached the house, the
little girl made one request of her governess.
“I want to write to Ermie. May I do it
to-night?”
“No, my love, I must forbid that. You are
much too tired.”
“But it is so important-far
more important than I can tell you, and I promised
Susy.”
“Maggie, do you want Ermengarde to come home?”
“Oh, yes; she must come home.”
“Then you shall send her a telegram in the morning.”
“But that seems cruel.
My letter will be far, far better. I could explain
things a little in a letter.”
Miss Nelson considered for a moment.
“I have great trust in you,
Maggie,” she said. “I won’t
question you, for I daresay you have heard something
from Susan Collins in confidence. I am sure you
would not wish to recall Ermengarde unless there was
great need.”
“There is; oh, really, there is.”
“Then you shall go to bed now,
and I will send you to Glendower with Hudson by the
first train in the morning.”