Chapter 19 A Modern Tomboy by L. T. Meade
A SORT OF ANGEL
Irene pulled with swift, sure strokes across the summer lake. The lake was one of the great features of the place. It was a quarter of a mile wide, and half a mile in length, and had been carefully attended to by owner after owner for generations; so that groups of water-lilies grew here, and swans arched their proud white necks and spread out their feathered plumes. Little Agnes had never seen anything so lovely before, and when she bent forward and saw her own reflection in the water she gave a scream of childish pleasure.
"Oh, how happy sister Emily must be!" was her remark.
Again Irene made the strange answer, "Don't ask for a day or two."
Then little Agnes raised grave dark eyes to Irene's face.
"But any one would be happy with you," she said. "To look at you is such a comfort."
"Tell me about yourself," said Irene suddenly, shipping her oars, bending forward, and fixing her intensely bright eyes on the child.
She did not feel at all like a changeling now. That wild thing in her breast was still. She felt somewhat like a mother, somewhat like an ordinary little girl might feel towards a loved baby-sister, or even towards a doll. This new sense of protection had a marvelous effect upon her. She would not have minded if little Agnes had crept into her arms and laid her head on her breast.
"Tell me what you did before you came here," she said.
"But don't you know?" said Agnes. "Sister Emily has been living with you for a long time. She must have told you about me."
"I am ashamed to say I never asked her anything about you."
"I suppose that is because you are very thoughtful. You were determined—yes, determined—not to give her pain. She is always so sad when she thinks of us; but Hughie and I are not really unhappy. We don't mind things now."
"What do you mean by 'now'? Tell me—do tell me."
"Oh, we are at school. Hughie is at a pretty good school, although it is rather rough. He is learning hard. He is to be apprenticed to a trade some day. Dear sister Emily cannot afford to bring him up as a gentleman; but she is saving every penny of her money to put him into a really good trade. Perhaps he will be a bookbinder, or perhaps a cabinetmaker."
"But people of that sort are not gentry," said Irene. Then she colored and bit her lips.
Little Agnes had seen so much of the rough side of life that she was not at all offended.
"Sister Emily says that she could not afford to bring us up as a lady and gentleman, and so we are to be trained for something else. I think she is going to put me into a shop."
"Indeed she won't," said Irene fiercely, "for I won't let her."
There was a new tone in her voice which frightened little Agnes. She sank back among her soft cushions.
"You mustn't be angry with her, for she is the best sister in all the world. No one else would work so hard to support us. You know, when father and mother died there wasn't a penny-piece to keep us, and we were both very young; and if it hadn't been for Emily I might have been sent to one of those dreadful charity schools. But as it is, I am being taught, and now I am staying at this lovely place for the holidays, and I have met you, and I think you are a sort of angel."
Irene burst into a ringing laugh.
"You're the very first person who has ever called me that," she said. "Now look here, Agnes; there's just one thing I want to ask you."
"What is that?" asked little Agnes.
"Don't speak to the servants about me, nor even to your beloved Emily, nor much to Rosamund. You think certain things about me. Other people may not agree with you."
"I should like to fight them if they differed," said the little girl.
"Well, that's all right; you can fight them by-and-by if you like; but at present say nothing about me. I am your friend; it will depend on whether you keep silence or not whether I continue to be your friend. As long as I am your friend you are safe and happy here, so that is all right."
Little Agnes, never having heard anything about Irene except that she was her sister Emily's pupil, believed these words, and continued to look with a fascinated gaze at the white-throated swans, at the beautiful water-lilies, and at the calm reflection of the boat and their two selves in the water. She saw nothing whatever of the rapid stream in the centre of the lake, where poor Miss Carter had almost met her death, nor did she see any fierce or turbulent side to Irene's erratic nature.
By-and-by the bell sounded, and Irene exclaimed, "I declare it is time for us to go in. You are much too young to sit up to dinner. I will see that you are put to bed, and have something very nice for you to eat, and I will sit with you until you fall asleep."
"But you will want your own dinner," said little Agnes.
"My own dinner doesn't matter in the very least. I will have a snatch of something when I go downstairs. Now come along."
She began to ply her oars again, and in a minute or two they had landed, the boat had been moored, and the two children went up to the house.
Hughie was standing on the steps, blowing a loud whistle through his fingers.
"Hullo, Aggie!" he cried. "Why, you are looking as fresh as possible; and Miss Irene—the wonderful Miss Irene"—here he gave a mocking bow to Irene—"has taken you under her wing. I can tell you sister Emily is pretty jealous."
Irene looked at him with small favor.
"Will you please let us pass?" she said.
The boy made another sweeping bow, and Irene and little Agnes passed into the house. They went upstairs. Irene took her little friend to the pink room next to her own. Here all her things had been unpacked already by Miss Frost herself, who had now, however, vanished. Agnes, tired, happy, pleased with her new friend, fearing nothing, trusting all things, was soon got into bed, and Irene sat by her until she dropped asleep. Then she laid a light kiss on her forehead, closed the door softly, and went downstairs.
Dinner was a thing of the past. Hughie and Miss Frost were pacing about in one of the corridors. Irene ran into the drawing-room. Lady Jane was lying on one of the sofas, half-asleep. She started up when she saw her daughter, and said in a quiet tone, "You will want some dinner, won't you?"
"Yes; I have desired James to give me something. He is getting it ready."
"I will come and sit with you while you eat it," said Rosamund, who was also there, jumping up and tossing down the book she had been looking through somewhat restlessly.
The two girls moved off. Irene satisfied her appetite, and then Rosamund asked her to come with her into one of the greenhouses.
"Well," said Irene, her eyes sparkling, "I suppose you are satisfied with me to-night. I have behaved well to little Agnes, have I not?"
"In one sense you have behaved well enough; but you have quite forgotten one thing."
"I do hope you are not going to scold me, I feel so wonderfully virtuous. She is a dear little soul, and I have promised to take her under my protection—that is, if no one will interfere. But I see you mean to begin at once. It is exceedingly unkind of you. What is wrong now?"
"Only Miss Frost—poor Miss Frost! You seem to have taken the little sister quite away from her. She has not been able to speak to the little thing since she arrived, and she has done everything for her."
"It doesn't matter what Frosty has done in the past. I mean to do everything for little Agnes in the future—that is, if I am not bullied. If I am, I——What is it, Rosamund?"
"Dear Irene, I quite know what you feel. It is the first time you have found some one absolutely to trust you. Little Agnes trusts you; but you ought to remember that she is Miss Frost's little sister. You ought not to hurt her feelings. You ought to let Miss Frost do something for her, too. If you had been supporting somebody very precious and very dear for a great many years, and then quite a fresh person came along and took that treasure from you, how would you feel?"
"I'm sure I don't know. I can't understand the position. I only know that I like little Agnes, and as long as she is left with me I shall be good to her. The best possible thing for Frosty and yourself and that horrid, tiresome boy to do is to go away, I'll look after little Agnes."
"You were very sweet to her to-day, I will admit that; but what I want to say is, do try and remember that Miss Frost will want to see something of her too. Don't let Miss Frost become too jealous, for she is devoted to her little sister."
"Well, I hate the boy," said Irene. "He was so rude when we came off the lake, and he whistled in such a defiant way. He isn't one bit a gentleman. Little Agnes told me that he was going to be a sort of tradesman. We oughtn't to have those people coming to the house. You shouldn't have insisted on my inviting them; you really shouldn't, Rosamund."
"I thought you were quite above that sort of thing," said Rosamund in a lofty tone. "But never mind. Do what you wish; only remember that both the boy and girl are your guests, and that I am going away next week."
Irene suddenly felt that Rosamund, much as she adored her, was a little too dictatorial that evening. She had expected great praise for her conduct, instead of which she had been blamed. She ran out into the cool night air, notwithstanding the expostulations of her mother, and came in late, feeling fagged and wearied. She did not invite Rosamund, as was her custom, to come to her bedroom; but she went there alone, locking the outer door, and then softly opening the door between herself and the new treasure she had found. Yes, little Agnes was a treasure. She was something more precious than gold. She was like a doll of the most beautiful order.
Now, Irene had always despised dolls; but this living doll, with the pink cheeks, and the black eyelashes, and the soft hair, and the sweet little face, was altogether a different matter. The little one stirred in her sleep and breathed a name softly. Irene bent to listen—the name was her own.
"Irene darling!" murmured little Agnes.
"Oh, she is a pet! I am so glad she has come! I'd almost die for her!" thought the girl.
She went back to her own room after gazing once again at the sweet little face. That night, for the first time for years, Irene deliberately dropped on her knees and uttered a prayer full of thankfulness to God. "I thank Thee, great good God, for having given me a darling little girl to protect and love. Please don't allow Frosty to be jealous, and please let her stay with me, for she is just the person to quiet that horrid living thing inside me," whispered the child. Then she got into bed and fell fast asleep.
She was awakened by cries before morning dawned. In a moment she started up, sprang out of bed, and rushed into the next room. Little Agnes was sitting up in her bed, puzzled and terrified.
"Where am I? Oh, what has happened?"
"Are you frightened, darling?" said Irene. "Are you really frightened? Would you like to come into my bed? Have you had a bad dream?"
"I have. I thought I was at school, and that Mrs. Treadgold, one of our mistresses, had beaten me. I fancied that she was beating me hard, and that made me wake. Now I remember that I am with you. Oh, yes, I should like to come into your bed."
"Then you shall come at once," said Irene.
She lifted the little girl out. She herself felt quite old and motherly beside the little one. During the remainder of the night they slept in each other's arms, and much of the hardness and the wildness of Irene's nature melted away during that sleep, and some of that motherhood which is the most blessed gift God can give to a girl visited her.
She herself insisted on helping Agnes to dress in the morning, and then they went down to breakfast hand in hand.