Chapter 9 A Modern Tomboy by L. T. Meade
AN UNEXPECTED ROOM-MATE
It was on that very same day that Jane Denton, Rosamund's special friend, complained of sudden chill and headache. She was a little sick, too, and could not touch her supper. Mrs. Merriman always kept a clinical thermometer handy, and on discovering that the young girl's temperature was considerably over one hundred degrees, she took fright and had her removed to a room in a distant part of the house.
"If she is not better in the morning we will send for the doctor," was her verdict. "Now, girls, one thing: I do not wish the Professor to be annoyed. I undertook this school in order to save him anxiety, and if he knows of every trifling indisposition he may be terribly vexed and put out. I therefore take charge of Jane to-night, sleeping in her room and looking after her, and administering to her simple remedies. If in the morning she is no better I will send for the doctor, and then we will know how to act. Meanwhile you, Rosamund, have your room to yourself."
Rosamund was distressed for her friend, and boldly announced at once that she would act as nurse.
"I ought to," she said. "She is my friend, and I have always been fond of her. Besides, it seems exceedingly hard that you, Mrs. Merriman, who work so much for us all day long, should have to work at night as well. Do let me undertake this."
Mrs. Merriman could scarcely keep the tears back from her eyes when Rosamund spoke. She could not help liking the girl, notwithstanding her eccentricities and her very bold act of disobedience on the previous Sunday. But she was firm in her resolve.
"No, dear," she said; "I am obliged to you for making the offer."
"Hypocrite!" said Lucy angrily to herself. "She knows it cannot be accepted."
Mrs. Merriman was not looking at Lucy; on the contrary, she was looking full into Rosamund's face.
"I am obliged to you for making the offer," she continued; "but it is impossible for me to accept it, for the simple reason that there is just the possibility that Jane may be going to have some infectious disease, in which case I could not hear of any other girl in my establishment running any risk. Therefore you see for yourself that I cannot accept your offer. I should be unfaithful to your mother if I did."
"Oh, come, Rosamund!" said Laura Everett; "do let us go out and have a chat together. Of course, Mrs. Merriman is right. We will help you all we can, Mrs. Merriman, by being extra good girls. Isn't that the best way?"
Mrs. Merriman admitted that it was, and the two girls, their arms entwined, went out into the soft summer night. Laura Everett, with her merry face, blue eyes, and fair hair, was a great contrast to Rosamund Cunliffe. She was exceedingly clever and fond of books. Most of her tastes lay, however, in a scientific direction. She was devoted to chemistry and mathematics, and could already work well in these two branches of science. She was intensely matter-of-fact, and in reality had nothing whatever in common with Rosamund.
Lucy Merriman had a great admiration for Laura Everett: in the first place, because her mother, Lady Everett, was Mrs. Merriman's old friend; and in the next place, because she possessed, as Lucy expressed it, the invaluable gift of common-sense. She had rather taken Laura under her own wing, had intended to make her her special friend, had meant to trot her round and to show her to other friends; in short, as much as possible to divide her from Rosamund, whom she considered a most dangerous and pernicious influence.
But Laura had character of her own, and admired Rosamund; and now that she saw the girl looking rather pale, with an almost pathetic expression in her brown eyes, her heart smote her with a sense of pity, and she went up to her eagerly.
"I want you to tell me just what you think about the Singletons," she said. "Let us walk about under the trees. Isn't it nice and home-like here? Don't you think so, Rosamund?"
"Perhaps," said Rosamund in a dubious voice. Then she added impulsively, "You see, Laura, it is somewhat difficult for me to talk to you, for Lucy is your friend and she is not mine."
"I know you do not like her—I mean I know she is in every way your opposite; but if you only would take no notice of her little peculiarities, and accept her as she really is, you would soon find good points in her. She is devoted to her parents, and is very true. I know, of course, she is a little matter-of-fact."
"Yes, that is it," said Rosamund. "For goodness' sake, Laura, don't waste time talking about her. We can say as much as ever we like about the Singletons. I must say I am rather charmed with them."
"And so am I," said Laura, "particularly with Maud. She is so bright and unselfish."
"The person I like best of the entire group is Miss Carter," said Rosamund stoutly.
"What!" exclaimed Laura, with a laugh. "That poor, thin, frightened-looking governess—'Cartery love,' as they call her?"
"Yes, 'Cartery love,' or anything else you like to name her. I took a fancy to her, and thought her awfully nice. I may see more of her; there's no saying."
"You are so odd, Rosamund—so different from the other girls!"
"Mother told me that before, but somehow I never believed it. Of course, I have never been at school before."
"You can scarcely call this homely, pleasant house, school."
"I should enjoy it but for Lucy. But there, we are treading on dangerous ground."
"So we are," said Laura. Then she added stoutly, "I like it in spite of Lucy; or, rather, I like Lucy as much as anything else belonging to the school. I hope," she continued as they paced slowly under the fir-trees, "that you are not really anxious about Jane. I know that you and she are friends."
"We have been friends almost since we were babies," said Rosamund. "Not that we are a bit alike in character."
"Indeed you are not. Jane hasn't a quarter of your spirit."
"Perhaps it is because we are such opposites that we are such great friends," continued Rosamund.
"Perhaps; but do say you are not anxious about her."
"Not a scrap. I know Janey's ways. She is a little bit of a glutton is my Jane, and she overate herself at tea at the Singletons'. Now, you must not breathe it to mortal; but when I saw her taking that third plate of strawberries and cream, and that fifth hot buttered cake, I guessed there'd be something up to-night. She gets attacks of indigestion very severely; but if she has a chance of making a good meal—I mean a meal that she likes, for, of course, although the food here is good and plentiful, it is very simple—she never can resist it. There's my Janey to the life, so you needn't suppose that I am a little bit anxious about her."
"Well, that's all right," said Laura. "Somehow I thought by your manner you were."
"That is because I offered to stay in her room to-night. It did seem such a pity that dear Mrs. Merriman should be tired out."
"You have a very kind heart, Rosamund. Come, you know it."
"Have I? I don't think I do know it. But do you know what it is, Laura? I am tired and would like to go to bed. Do you mind if I leave you?"
Laura, who saw Lucy in the distance, and was not so taken up with Rosamund as she had imagined she would be, consented without a moment's hesitation to part from her friend, and Rosamund presently went up to her own room. She had said good-night to the rest of the party, and wondered what she should feel like when she entered her room with no Jane to keep her company. Not that she was anything like as attached to Jane as Jane was to her; for she was Jane's idol, her ideal of all that was noble and princess-like and beautiful. Jane, to Rosamund, was an ordinary good-tempered girl, with whom she could put up, and on whom she could impose to a certain extent.
Nothing could exceed Rosamund's amazement, and a scream almost rose to her lips, when she entered and saw, curled up snugly in Jane's bed, no less a person than Irene Ashleigh. Irene's exceedingly bright face peeped up above the clothes. She gave a low, impish laugh, and then said slowly:
"Don't scream. Keep your nerve. I climbed up by the wistaria. I have been in bed for the last hour, expecting you. I happened to be hiding just below the window, clinging on for bare life to the wistaria and the thick ivy, and I heard the conversation between you and Mrs. Merriman, so I knew that you would have your room to yourself, and decided that I would share it with you. Now lock the door, for I have a great deal to say."
"But we are not allowed to lock our doors," said Rosamund.
"You will lock it to-night, because I order you to," said Irene.
"I shall do nothing of the sort. It is my room, and I will do exactly as I like."
Irene sat up in bed. Nothing could be more picturesque than her general appearance. She was in the red frock that she usually wore; her wild hair curled in elf-locks all over her head; her eyes, bright as stars, shone in the middle of her little elfin face; her charming lips pouted just for a moment. Then she said in a clear tone, "What if I get up and strike you right across the face? Will you lock the door in preference to that?"
"I will not lock the door."
Like a flash, Irene was out of bed and had struck Rosamund a resounding blow on her cheek. Rosamund felt the blow tingling, but she stood firm.
"Will you lock the door now?"
"No."
"What if I give you a blow on the other cheek?"
"Here it is for your majesty," said Rosamund, turning her other cheek to the foe.
Irene burst into a laugh.
"What a creature you are! But you know we are in danger. I have such a lot to say to you, and any one may nab us. Won't you lock the door just to please me? I won't slap you any more. I am sorry I hurt your dear cheek. I came because I could not help myself, and because I could not live without you any longer. Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday, and no sign of you, and I just hungered for you. I am pining for you through all the days and all the nights, through every hour, in the midst of every meal; not speaking about you, for that is not my way, but just hungering and hungering, and yet you say you will not lock the door."
"No, Irene; and you ought not to be here. What is to be done?"
Poor Rosamund had never felt more bewildered in her life. She had given her word of honor; and her word of honor was, to her, worthy of respect. She had never yet broken it. Should she break it now? Irene looked at her for a few minutes in wonder. The two girls were standing in the centre of the room, for, of course, Irene was fully dressed. Compared to Rosamund, she was a small girl, for Rosamund was tall and exceedingly well developed for her age. Irene was a couple of years younger, but she was as lithe as steel. Her little fingers could crush and destroy if they pleased. Her thin arms were muscular to a remarkable degree for so young a girl. She had not a scrap of superfluous flesh on her body. At this moment she looked more spirit than girl; and if Rosamund could have got herself to believe that there were such creatures as changelings, she might almost have given credence to Irene's own story of herself.
As it was, however, she knew quite well that there must be a fight between them, and that if ever she was to influence Irene for good she must conquer her now.
"Look here," she said, going straight up to the younger girl; "you did wrong to come in here."
"I did wrong?" said Irene, with a little impish laugh. "But then I always do wrong. That doesn't matter."
"It may not matter to you. I am not concerning myself about your morals at this moment, but I am thinking about my own. When you did wrong now you injured me, and I am not going to put up with it."
"You are not going to put up with it? And how are you going to prevent it, darling?"
Before Rosamund could utter a word, Irene had sprung upon her, seized her round the waist, and compelled Rosamund to seat herself upon the side of the bed, which she herself had been occupying a few minutes ago.
"Now, darling," she said, "you are not going to get away from me, and I believe in your heart you don't want to."
Poor Rosamund! a great wave of longing to help this queer child swept over her heart; but there was her word of honor. She was a passionate, head-strong, naughty girl; but she could not give that up. Besides, she could not do anything with Irene in the future if she did not conquer her now.
"You are not going to—to say you don't like me?" said Irene, an expression of absolute terror filling her eyes and making them look wilder than ever. "Nobody ever dared to say that to me, and you are not going to be the first."
"As a matter of fact," said Rosamund, "I like you very much."
"There, then, I am satisfied," exclaimed Irene, and she flung her thin arms round Rosamund's neck, squeezed herself up close to her, and kissed her again and again.
"Ah!" she said, "I knew that all my life I was waiting for somebody; and that somebody was you, just you, so big, so brave, so—so different from all the others. I should not be the horrid thing I am if the others had not been afraid of me. I got worse and worse, and at last I could not control myself any longer. I did things that perhaps I ought not to have done; but if you give me up I don't know what will happen—I don't know where things will end. Are you going to give me up?"
"I will tell you now exactly what has happened, Irene, and will leave it to you to judge how you ought to act for my sake at the present moment. You say you love me——"
"I suppose that is what I feel," said Irene. "It is a queer sort of sensation, and I have never had it before. It seems to make my heart lighter, and when I think of you I seem to get a sense of rest and pleasure. When you are away from me I feel savage with every one else; but when you are near I think the best of others. And I think it is just possible that if I saw much of you I'd be a sort of a good girl—not a very good one, but a sort of a good girl, particularly if you'd manage mother and manage the servants, and tell them not to be such geese as to be afraid of me. For, of course, you know, I can't help being a changeling."
"Now, Irene, you must listen to me. I ought to be in bed and asleep. People will hear us talking, and I won't allow the door to be locked, whether you like it or not, because it is against the rules."
"Gracious!" said Irene, "couldn't we both get out of the window, and climb down by the wistaria and the ivy, and reach the ground, and go and hide in the plantation? We could spend the night there, locked in each other's arms, so happy—oh, so happy! By the way, I saw a little summer-house—we could spend the night in the summer-house, couldn't we? Couldn't we?"
It was a temptation. Rosamund was fond of adventures. The night was a very hot one; the room was close. Outside, there were stars innumerable. Mrs. Merriman, the only person who ever invaded the girls' bedrooms after the hours of repose, would certainly not intrude upon Rosamund. It would be nice to spend one night with her friend. Could she call Irene her friend? Anyhow, it would be nice to spend one night in the open air, and she could influence Irene and help her, and——But then there was the word of honor.
"I can't," she said. "I would have liked it, of course. But I will tell you what happened. When I got back home the other night I saw Professor Merriman, and he was very angry with me, and he said that I ought not to have disobeyed him. I told him all about you, and"——
"Of course he hates me, horrid old frump!" said Irene. "But you are not going to mind him. Why, mother has been writing to him, and writing to your mother, too; and the one thing about you that I don't quite like is that mother had evidently been thinking that you have been sent as a sort of Providence here to reform me. You must see by my making that remark that I tolerate you very much indeed, or I should not endure it. There, it's a fact that I do care for you. I don't mind mother, and I don't mind your mother; but I am willing to be a little bit good if you are with me. But I am not going away from you now. You can choose whether you have me in your room all night or whether you and I spend a happy time in that dear little bower in the plantation."
"I cannot choose either," said Rosamund stoutly, "for I will tell you what did happen. I promised Professor Merriman that I would have nothing to do with you for a whole week. At the end of that time I was to give him my decision. Now, this is Wednesday, so the week won't be up until Sunday. So you must go, Irene. You must go at once. I will meet you at the end of the week, or, if you prefer it, I will go down to Professor Merriman now and tell him that you came in, and that I asked you to go."
"Oh, what a mean spitfire of a thing you'd be if you did that!" said Irene, her eyes flashing with anger. "You can't mean it—you simply can't."
Just then there was the noise of approaching footsteps on the landing outside, and the handle of the door was turned. In a flash, so quickly that even Rosamund could not believe her own eyes, Irene was hiding under the bed, and Lucy Merriman entered.
Lucy looked prim and neat, as usual, in her white dressing-gown and her hair in a long plait down her back.
"I have come for—but surely you were talking to some one?" she said, addressing Rosamund.
"I sometimes repeat poems to myself," said Rosamund, who was standing with her back to Lucy, quivering all over with indignation.
"But I heard two voices; and it is against the rules for any noise to be made in the bedrooms after ten o'clock. I have come for——"
"Do you mind telling me what you have come for, so that you may get it and go?" was Rosamund's response.
"You are exceedingly impertinent," said Lucy. "Why do you always address me as you do? You try your utmost to make me unhappy in my own home."
"And you, instead of treating me as an honored guest, try your utmost to make me miserable," was Rosamund's quick reply. "Never mind," she continued, hot passion getting the better of her; "I shall not be with you much longer."
"That is quite nice—that is what I hoped," said Lucy almost gleefully. "Well, Jane Denton is very bad, and they are thinking of sending for the doctor. Of course, you don't care whether your friend lives or dies. Anyhow, I have been sent to fetch a bottle of aromatic vinegar which Jane, poor girl! said she had left on her washhand-stand. Ah! here it is."
Lucy took it up. She looked round the room. Poor Rosamund's terror can be better imagined than described, for the wicked Irene had lifted the valance of the bed, and her bright eyes and a tiny portion of her face could be distinctly seen by any one who happened to glance in that direction. Had Lucy seen her she must have screamed, for nothing more elfish than that face could be imagined. As it was, all might have been well had not Irene, just as Lucy was reaching the door, given a low, wild whoop, and then disappeared again under the valance of the bed.
"Now, I know you have some one there."
"If you are not afraid of rats you had better look," was Rosamund's quick response. But she turned very pale, and Lucy, who was something of a coward herself, said after a minute's pause:
"Rats! You know there are no rats in the house. What fresh insult will you bestow upon us?"
A moment later she had vanished from the room. Rosamund put both her hands to her hot ears. Irene sprang from her hiding-place.
"Didn't I do it well? Oh, what a hateful, hateful girl she is! Now, Rosamund—Rose—whatever you call yourself—you had better just get right out of this window with me as fast as ever you can, or you'll have Lucy bringing her precious governesses, and her mother, and that sick girl, Jane Denton—how dare she call herself Jane, my dear mother's name?—as well as the Professor himself, on the scene to hunt for the rats. Come, Rose, out with you! We will lock the door first, and then all will be safe."
It seemed to Rosamund at the moment that even her word of honor had vanished out of sight, for her hatred of Lucy had really reached boiling-point. She did turn the key in the lock, knowing well that no one would break open the door until the morning; and a minute later she and Irene had escaped by the window, and gone down hand over hand by the wistaria and ivy until they reached the ground. Three minutes later they were ensconced in the old summer-house, where they sat very close to each other, Irene not talking much, and Rosamund wondering what was to become of her.
"It seems to me," said Rosamund to herself, as she looked down on the little creature who nestled up almost like a wild bird in her arms, "that I have burnt my boats, and that I cannot go back. But there is one thing certain: I will tell the Professor the truth in the morning."
All that Irene did, however, during the long hours of that summer's night was to lie fast asleep with Rosamund's arm round her. But just before she fell into slumber, Rosamund said:
"Aren't you cold, Irene? Surely you are not accustomed, even in the middle of summer, to wear so little clothing at night."
"Bless you!" said Irene, "half the nights of my life I sleep in the boat. I go out just as night falls, and none of them can ever catch me; and there I sleep, curled up in the bottom of the boat. Oh! it is splendid to wake in the early morning and to hear the birds singing, and to feel the fresh, fresh air on my face. I was never meant for civilization. When you come to live with me we will do the same, both of us. We'll be an uncivilized pair of terrors—that is what we will be. If you come to me, Rosamund, will you promise to be quite naughty? You won't turn awfully goody-goody, just to make me goody-goody?"
"I can promise nothing at present," said Rosamund. "You did exceedingly wrong to come, and I did worse to yield to you, and to get out of the window, and to spend the night with you, as I have done. I don't know what will happen in the morning—I really don't—and my friend so very ill, too."
"Oh, bother your friend!" said Irene; and then she dropped off asleep, and Rosamund sat and thought things out.
At first the night-air was delightful; but as the hours went by poor Rosamund, who had not brought any extra wrap with her in her hasty flight, felt chilled and tired. She woke Irene when the sun was high in the heavens.
"Come," she said, "I have broken my word of honor, and for you; but I am going now to take you back as far as The Follies. What will happen afterwards I do not know, and you mustn't ask me. If you don't come quietly at once I will never have anything more to do with you as long as I live. Get up! come along!"
"Why, you are quite cross; but you look very handsome, and I admire your ways," said Irene. "Dear, dear! Wasn't it lovely sleeping in your arms? We will sleep together in a cosy bed at The Follies, won't we, darling?"
"I can't make any promises. I don't know what is going to happen. Come quickly. I want to be in the house and up in my own room before any one discovers that I spent the night out."
There seemed reason in this to Irene, and she suffered her friend to walk with her along the road. It was a glorious summer morning; but at so early an hour—not yet five o'clock—the air was cool. Exercise, however, soon revived Rosamund, and she lost that feeling of chill and fatigue which had made the latter part of the night so unpleasant to her. As to Irene, she was as fresh as a young bird, and the pranks she played, and the somersaults she turned, and the extraordinary manner in which she went on would have terrified many girls, although Rosamund scarcely noticed them. She had already discovered that Irene's bark was worse than her bite, and the best plan was to let her alone and not to take too much notice of her vagaries.
The two girls parted at the gates of The Follies, Irene assuring Rosamund that she was going to lay all sorts of traps for the servants during the next couple of hours.
"I shall have great fun," she said. "They have been more than usually troublesome lately, and I want every one to go, so that we can have a fresh batch in their places when you come, darling; for you will come—I know you will—early next week. And, Rose, I will even be a little bit good for you."
There was a suspicion of tears in the wild, star-like eyes, and then the queer little creature flashed out of sight.
Rosamund stood still for a minute with her hand to her forehead. She then slowly retraced her steps. She was so lost in thought that she did not notice the milkman as he rattled along with his cart; nor did she notice the doctor, who passed in his gig, driving rapidly back to Dartford. He, however, stared very hard at the good-looking girl, evidently a lady, who was out all alone at that early hour.
By-and-by Rosamund got back to Sunnyside. She climbed up the ivy and wistaria and re-entered her own room. She carefully shut the window, unlocked her door, undressed, and got into bed. Her first impulse had been to tell the whole story of her night's adventure to Professor Merriman; for she felt that, stern as he could be, there was also something gentle about him, and he would certainly understand her. But on second thought the desire to confide in him passed out of sight, more particularly as there was a noise and confusion—a sort of stifled confusion—in the house: people hurrying backwards and forwards, and voices sunk to whispers, which came sometimes to Rosamund's ears, and sometimes receded in the distance.
By-and-by she looked at her watch and saw that it was half-past seven, the usual hour for the girls to get up. But no one had brought hot water, and no one had called her. She felt really dead-tired at last. What did anything matter? She had got herself into such a serious scrape that she did not think she could possibly stay more than a day or two longer at the Merrimans' school. Of course she would be dismissed, expelled, disgraced. But she did not care. She was sorry for Jane—quiet, gentle Jane—who had always been her devoted friend; but she did not mind anybody else. Laura Everett she rather liked; but the other girls were indifferent to her, with the exception of Lucy, whom she cordially hated. Before she knew where she was, Rosamund was sound asleep.