Capricious Caroline Part 48

"Nasty thing!" said Baby, suddenly, in abusive fashion.

Caroline said, "Hush!" but this brought Betty straight to the bed. It took her just a minute to climb and nestle down on the other side.

"How long has she been here, little pickle?" she demanded.

The wooliness had gone from Caroline's brain.

"Don't tease her, darling," she urged, and she smoothed Baby's downy cheek soothingly as she spoke.

"She _is_ a pickle," retorted Betty. "A horrid pickle."

Caroline made haste to avert a battle.

"Watch the blind," she said, "and you will see the sunbeam fairy sail into the room."

But Betty had no use for fairies this afternoon.

"My dog's got a silver collar. He's called Box."

"Who brought him?" asked Caroline, in a low voice.

"Oh, Rupert, of course!"

The girl's heart gave a bang. She tried to remember when it was that she had staggered into this cool, restful bed with that aching torture in her brow and eyes.

"He will bite," said Betty.

And Baby whispered eagerly----

"Mine will, too, won't he?"

"I think I will get up," said Caroline; but Betty at once a.s.sumed a sitting posture.

"You can't," she said, "you're clothes have all been took away."

"Then I'll wear yours," said Caroline.

She was trembling all over! How stupid of her to have been ill. How long had she been shut up in this room?

The children began with bursts of laughter to dress her up in imagination in their garments.

She listened to them, hearing nothing; then she began to question again----

"You're the grown-up young lady, Betty," she said. "What has been going on downstairs? Did ... did ... Rupert really come?"

"Really and truly," said Betty. "He said he was awful sorry you was ill. Aunty Brenny's been 'plaining, too. Oh, Caroline, you _must_ get well by Sat.u.r.day! Cook's sister Flo is going to be married. Cook's making a cake. You will let me and Baby go, won't you? We want to carry her train."

"Is that all the news?" asked Caroline.

The child puckered her brow and nodded her head, and then said----

"Oh no. Somethin' else. Mummy sent us each a watch; a real living watch, Caroline; and she's gone to some mountains, and she's very well, and she's got a new name, and it isn't Rupert's and she wants us to say our prayers for her every night."

The little voice on Caroline's right began to murmur these devotional offices, but she stopped sharply halfway, because Betty exclaimed----

"Rupert's going to send my pony down here, and a donkey for Baby. Do you want your letters?" suddenly asked Betty. "There's a 'eap waiting."

The heap turned out to be two. One with a foreign postmark, and one with the address of a London club stamped on the envelope.

"I know who that's from," said Betty, with a laugh, "that's Sammy. Oh, he's been down here, too! And what do you think? Baby asked him for a shilling!"

A voice from the staircase called both children to attention.

They slid off the bed like two culprits.

"Please ask Dennis if she will come to me," Caroline said, and Betty paused to shrug her shoulders.

"Can't! Dennis is went to mummy." Then she said--"When did she go, Baby? I don't remember 'xactly."

"I think it was the day after this day," said Baby, after some reflection.

"Well, please," said Caroline, "I should like my clothes."

The moment she was alone she sat forward, and with trembling fingers tore open Broxbourne's letter, the other she slipped under her pillow; she was not strong enough to read what Camilla had written just yet.

Sir Samuel was not skilful with his pen; his letter was brief.

"Dear Miss Graniger,

"I ran down as I said I should, and was awfully sorry to hear you were knocked over. I'll be down again soon, but I thought I would scribble you a word to say I shall keep my promise till I see you again."

Caroline's hand closed over the letter, and she lay back and let the nervous beat steady down in her heart and pulses.

The blind still flapped to and fro, but the golden streak had moved. A blackbird was piping in the clear air; she could hear the children's voices from the garden. The room had the same tranquil air as before, but the soft reposeful element had pa.s.sed away; Caroline's eyes were closed, but she neither slept nor dreamed.

Remembrance was with her again, and with remembrance, heartache, yearning, and regret.

CHAPTER XVI

In June, when the gardens at Yelverton were glorious with roses (and Caroline's one task seemed to be hunting the children out of the strawberry-beds), Cuthbert Baynhurst and his wife returned to town.

They did not do this voluntarily; it was literally to see his mother die that Cuthbert was summoned back to England.