CHAPTER XII.
GOOD NEWS.
I don't suppose there was anything really infectious about my illness,though nowadays whenever there is any sort of sore throat people arevery much on their guard. Perhaps they were not so cautious long ago.However that may have been, Myra was not banished from my room for verylong. I rather think, indeed, that she used to creep in and sit like alittle mouse behind the curtains before I was well enough to notice her.
But everything for a time seemed dreamy to me. The first event I canquite clearly recall was my being allowed to sit up for an hour or two,or, more correctly speaking, to _lie_ up, for I was lifted on to thesofa and tucked in almost as if I were still in bed.
That was a very happy afternoon. It was happy for several reasons, forthat morning had brought me the first letter I had had from dear mammasince she had heard of my bold step in running away from school! Lyingstill and silent for so many hours as I had done, things had grown tolook differently to me. I began to see where and how I had been wrong,and to think that if I had been more open about my troubles, morecourageous--that is to say, if I had gone to Miss Ledbury and told hereverything that was on my mind--I need not have been so terribly unhappyor caused trouble and distress to others.
A little of this mamma pointed out to me in her letter, which was,however, so very kind and loving, so full of sorrow that I had been sounhappy, that I felt more grateful than I knew how to express.Afterwards, when we talked it all over, years afterwards even, for weoften talked of that time after I was grown up and married, and hadchildren of my own, mamma said to me that she _could_ not blame methough she knew I had not done right, for she felt so broken-hearted atthe thought of what I had suffered.
It had been a mistake, no doubt, to send me to Green Bank, but mistakesare often overruled for good. I am glad to have had the experience ofit, as I think it made me more sympathising with others. And it made medetermine never to send any child of mine, or any child I had the careof, to a school where there was so little feeling of _home_, so littleaffection and gentleness--above all, that dreadful old-world rule ofletters being read, and the want of trust and confidence in the pupils,which showed in so many ways.
A few days after I received mamma's letter I was allowed to write toher. It was slow and tiring work, for I was only able to write a fewlines at a time, and that in pencil. But it was delightful to be free tosay just what I wanted to say, without the terrible feeling of MissAspinall, or worse still Miss Broom, judging and criticising every line.I thanked mamma with my whole heart for not being angry with me, and toshow her how truly I meant what I said, I promised her that when I waswell again and able to go back to school I would try my very, very bestto get on more happily.
But I gave a deep sigh as I wrote this, and Myra, who was sitting besideme, looked up anxiously, and asked what was the matter.
"Oh, Myra," I said, "it is just that I can't bear to think of going backto school. I'd rather never get well if only I could stay here tillmamma comes home."
"Dear little Geraldine," said Myra--she often called me "little" thoughshe was _scarcely_ any taller than I--"dear little Geraldine, youmustn't say that. I don't think it's right. And, you know, when you arequite well again things won't seem so bad to you. I remember once when Iwas ill--I was quite a little girl then,"--Myra spoke as if she was nowa very big girl indeed!--"I think it was when I had had the measles, theleast thing vexed me dreadfully. I cried because somebody had given me apresent of a set of wooden tea-things in a box, and the tea ran out ofthe cups when I filled them! Fancy crying for that!"
"I know," I said, "I've felt like that too. But this is a _real_trouble, Myra--a real, very bad, dreadful trouble, though I've promisedmamma to try to be good. Do you think, Myra, that when I'm back atschool your grandmamma will sometimes ask me to come to see you?"
"I'm sure----" my little friend began eagerly. But she was interrupted.For curiously enough, just at that moment Mrs. Cranston opened the doorand came in. She came to see me every day, and though at first I wasjust a tiny bit afraid of her--she seemed to me such a very old lady--Isoon got to love her dearly, and to talk to her quite as readily as tokind Miss Fenmore.
"What is my little girl sure about?" she said. "And how is my otherlittle girl to-day? Not too tired," and she glanced at my letter. "Youhave not been writing too much, dearie, I hope?"
"No, thank you," I replied, "I'm not tired."
"She's only rather unhappy, granny," said Myra.
"I think that's a very big 'only,'" said Mrs. Cranston. "Can't you tellme, my dear, what you are unhappy about?"
I glanced at Myra, as if asking her to speak for me. She understood.
"Granny," she said, "poor little Geraldine is unhappy to think of goingaway and going back to school."
Mrs. Cranston looked at me very kindly.
"Poor dear," she said, "you have not had much pleasure with us, as youhave been ill all the time."
"I don't mind," I said. "I was telling Myra, only she thought it wasnaughty, that I'd rather be ill always if I was with kind people,than--than--be at school where nobody cares for me."
"Well, well, my dear, the troubles we dread are often those that don'tcome to pass. Try to keep up your spirits and get quite well andstrong, so that you may be able to enjoy yourself a little before bothyou and Myra leave us."
"Oh, is Myra going away?" I said. "I thought she was going to live herealways," and somehow I felt as if I did not mind _quite_ so much tothink of going away myself in that case.
"Oh no," said the old lady, "Myra has her own home where she must spendpart of her time, though grandfather and I hope to have her here a gooddeal too. It is easy to manage now Miss Fenmore is with her always."
In my heart I thought Myra a most fortunate child--_two_ homes werereally hers; and I--I had none. This thought made me sigh again. I don'tknow if Myra guessed what I was thinking of, but she came close up to meand put her arms round my neck and kissed me.
"Geraldine," she whispered, by way of giving me something pleasant tothink of, perhaps, "as soon as you are able to walk about a little Iwant you to come downstairs with me to see the lions."
"Yes," I said in the same tone, "but you did give them my message,Myra?"
"Of course I did, and they sent you back their love, and they are veryglad you're better, and they want you very much indeed to come to seethem."
Myra and I understood each other quite well about the lions, you see.
I went on getting well steadily after that, and not many days later Iwent downstairs with Myra to the big show-room to see the lions. It gaveme such a curious feeling to remember the last time I had been there,that rainy evening when I crept in, as nearly broken-hearted and indespair as a little girl could be. And as I stroked the lions and lookedup in their dark mysterious faces, I could not get rid of the idea thatthey knew all about it, that somehow or other they had helped andprotected me, and when I tried to express this to Myra she seemed tothink the same.
After this there were not many days on which we did not come downstairsto visit our strange play-fellows, and not a few interesting games or"actings," as Myra called them, did we invent, in which the lions tooktheir part.
We were only allowed to be in the show-rooms at certain hours of theday, when there were not likely to be any customers there. Dear old Mrs.Cranston was as particular as she possibly could be not to let me doanything or be seen in any way which mamma could possibly have disliked.
And before long I began to join a little in Myra's lessons with MissFenmore--lessons which our teacher's kind and "understanding" ways madedelightful. So that life was really very happy for me at this time,except of course for the longing for mamma and father and Haddie, whichstill came over me in fits, as it were, every now and then, andexcept--a still bigger "except"--for the dreaded thought of the returnto school which must be coming nearer day by day.
Myra and I never spoke of it. I tried to forget about it, and she seemedto enter into my feeling without
saying anything.
I had had a letter from mamma in answer to the one I wrote to her justafter my illness. In it she said she was pleased with all I said, and mypromise to try to get on better at Green Bank, but "in the meantime,"she wrote, "what we want you to do is to get _quite_ strong and well, soput all troubling thoughts out of your head and be happy with your kindfriends."
That letter had come a month ago, and the last mail had only brought mea tiny little note enclosed in a letter from mamma to Mrs. Cranston,with the promise of a longer one "next time." And "next time" was aboutdue, for the mail came every fortnight, one afternoon when Myra and Iwere sitting together in our favourite nook in the show-room.
"I have a fancy, Myra," I said, "that something is going to happen. Mylion has been so queer to-day--I see a look on his face as if he knewsomething."
For we had each chosen one lion as more particularly our own.
"I think they always look rather like that," said Myra dreamily. "But Isuppose something must happen soon. I shall be going home next week."
"Next week," I repeated. "Oh, Myra!"
I could not speak for a moment. Then I remembered how I had made up mymind to be brave.
"Do you mind going home?" I asked. "I mean, are you sorry to go?"
"I'm always sorry to leave grandpapa and grandmamma," she said, "and thelions, and this funny old house. But I'm very happy at home, and I shalllike it still better with Miss Fenmore. No, I wouldn't be unhappy--I'dbe very glad to think of seeing father and mother and my little brothersagain--I wouldn't be unhappy, except for--you know, Geraldine--forleaving you," and my little friend's voice shook.
"Dear Myra," I said. "But you mustn't mind about me. I'm going totry----" but here I had to stop to choke down something in my throat."After all," I went on, after a moment or two, "more than a quarter ofthe time that father and mamma have to be away is gone. And perhaps inthe summer holidays I shall see Haddie."
"I wish----" Myra was beginning, but a voice interrupted her. It wasMiss Fenmore's.
"I have brought you down a letter that has just come by the second post,Geraldine, dear," she said; "a letter from South America."
"Oh, thank you," I said, eagerly seizing it.
Miss Fenmore strolled to the other side of the room, and Myra followedher, to leave me alone to read my letter. It was a pretty long one, butI read it quickly, so quickly that when I had finished it, I feltbreathless--and then I turned over the pages and glanced at it again. Ifelt as if I could not believe what I read. It was too good, toobeautifully good to be true.
"Myra," I gasped, and Myra ran back to me, looking quite startled. Ithink I must have grown very pale.
"No, no," I went on, "it's nothing wrong. Read it, or ask MissFenmore--she reads writing quicker. Oh, Myra, isn't it beautiful?"
They soon read it, and then we all three kissed and hugged each other,and Myra began dancing about as if she had gone out of her mind.
"Geraldine, Geraldine, I can't believe it," she kept saying, and MissFenmore's pretty eyes were full of tears.
I wonder if any of my readers can guess what this delightful news was?It was not that mamma was coming home--no, that could not be yet. Butnext best to that it certainly was.
It was to tell me this--that _till_ dear father and she returned, myhome was to be with Myra, and I was to be Miss Fenmore's pupil too.Wherever Myra was, there I was to be--principally at her father'svicarage in the country, but some part of the year with her kindgrandparents at Great Mexington. It was all settled and arranged--ofcourse I did not trouble my head about the money part of it, thoughafterwards mamma told me that both Mr. and Mrs. Raby and the Cranstonshad been most exceedingly kind, making out that the advantage of acompanion for their little girl would be so great that all the thankingshould be on their side, though, of course, they respected father toomuch not to let him pay a proper share of all the expense. And it reallycost less than my life at Green Bank, though father was now a good dealricher, and would not have minded paying a good deal more to ensure myhappiness.
There is never so much story to tell when people are happy, and thingsgo rightly; and the next year or two of my life, except of course forthe separation from my dear parents, were _very_ happy. Even thoughfather's appointment in South America kept him and mamma out there fornearly three years instead of two, I was able to bear the disappointmentin a very different way, with such kind and sympathising friends at handto cheer me, so that there is nothing bitter or sad to look back to inthat part of my childhood. Haddie spent the summer holidays with me,either at Crowley vicarage, or sometimes at the sea-side, where MissFenmore took care of us three. Once or twice he and I paid a visit toMrs. Selwood, which we enjoyed pretty well, as we were together, thoughotherwise it was rather dull.
And oh, how happy it was when father and mamma at last came home--nowords can describe it. It was not _quite_ unmixed pleasure--nothing everis, the wise folk say--for there was the separation from Myra and herfamily. But after all, that turned out less than we feared. Miss Fenmoremarried soon after, and as father had now a good post in London, and welived there, it was settled that Myra should be with us, and join in mylessons for a good part of the year, while I very often went back toCrowley with her for the summer holidays. And never without staying afew days at Great Mexington, to see Mr. and Mrs. Cranston and the lions!
* * * * *
Many years have passed since I went there for the last time. Myra'sgrandparents have long been dead--my own dear father and mother are deadtoo, for I am growing quite old. My grandchildren are older now than Iwas when I ran away from the school at Green Bank. But once, while mammawas still alive and well, she and I together strolled through thestreets of the grim town, which had for a time been our home, and livedover the old days again in fancy. I remember how tightly I clasped herhand when we passed the corner where once was the old Quakeress'sshop--all changed now--and walked down the street, still not verydifferent from what it had been, where we used to live.
There was no use in going to Mr. Cranston's show-rooms--they had longbeen done away with. But the lions are still to be seen. They stand inthe hall of Myra's pretty house in the country, where she and Haddon,her husband, have lived for many years, ever since my brother left thearmy and they came home for good from India.
I spend a part of every year with them, for I am alone now. They want meto live with them altogether, but I cling to a little home of my own.Our grandchildren know the lions well, and stroke their smooth sides,and gaze up into their dark faces just as Myra and I used to do. So Ipromised them that sometime I would write out the simple story that Ihave now brought to a close.
THE END.