A Pair of Schoolgirls: A Story of School Days

by Angela Brazil

  CHAPTER XV

  A Confession

  The two girls sank into the pool below, then, rising to the surface,caught with frantic fingers at a rotten willow bough that overhung thewater. Neither could swim, and in desperate plight they clung to thefrail and insecure support. Almost choked with their dipping, their hairand clothes streaming, they still managed to call vigorously for help.But already their weight was splitting the decayed old willow: there wasan ominous crack, a sudden rending, a piteous cry, and, still clutchingthe severed branch, they went whirling down the river. Mercifully theirfirst wild shriek had been heard, and a farmer who lived at the oldmillhouse by the weir had come running instantly from his garden. Hearrived on the scene just as the branch broke, and wading into the waterhe contrived to catch Dorothy, who was the nearer, and to drag her intosafety. But when he turned to look for her companion, Alison had driftedalong with the stream, and was out of his reach. He could not swim, sohe ran back towards the inn, shouting for help. At the sound of hiscries the stable boy and several others came rushing down the field.

  "Fetch a rope!"

  "Where's the boat?"

  "Cut a long pole!"

  "She'll drown while you're doing it!"

  "For Heaven's sake don't let her go down again!"

  "I can only swim a few strokes, but I'll try if I can reach her,"exclaimed the stable boy, flinging off his coat and plunging into theriver, which was shallow for a yard or so at the edge.

  Venturing out of his depth, he grasped Alison by her dress, then turned,floundering hopelessly towards the bank. For a moment it seemed as ifboth lives must surely be lost, but with a desperate effort the boymanaged to keep himself afloat, and to reach the hand of one of the menwho had waded out to meet him. Between them they pulled the unconsciousgirl from the water and laid her on the grass.

  "She's gone!"

  "No, no; I've seen worse than her as came round."

  "Take 'em both into the inn and send Sam on his bike for the doctor."

  The first intimation of the accident which Miss Carter received was thesight of Dorothy walking dripping wet up the garden, followed by agroup of men carrying Alison. She was a woman of sound, practicalcommon sense, and after the first momentary shock was over she set towork at once to administer treatment for the drowning, with the help ofthe other members of the Guild who were present. Their combined effortswere so successful that by the time the doctor arrived they hadsucceeded in restoring animation.

  Dorothy, rolled up in hot blankets, was little the worse for herimmersion, and did not need attention; but the medical man looked gravewhen he saw Alison.

  "She is suffering from severe collapse. Have you sent for her mother?"he asked.

  Miss Sherbourne and Mrs. Clarke had both been summoned by telegram. Theydrove up within five minutes of each other. Poor Mrs. Clarke's frantic,white-lipped agony was terrible to witness.

  "You must save her! She's all I have in the world!" she cried, turningdesperately, almost fiercely, upon the doctor.

  "Madam, I use my utmost skill, but life and death are in greater handsthan mine," he replied.

  For many hours Alison's life trembled in the balance. The district nursehad been sent for, and with the doctor watched the case anxiously allnight through. At length, when morning dawned, a turn came for thebetter.

  "Let her sleep now and she'll do," said Dr. Hall to the nurse. "Can'twe get her mother out of the room somehow?"

  "Miss Sherbourne is downstairs. I know her, and I dare say she willhelp," suggested the nurse.

  Aunt Barbara had also spent the night at the inn, partly because shethought it wiser to let Dorothy keep warm in bed, instead of attemptingto remove her; and partly because she felt she could not leave till sheknew that Alison was out of danger. She had sat up, hoping that shemight be of assistance, though she had not liked to intrude her presenceinto the sick-room until she was asked. She came now at the nurse'srequest, and gently persuaded poor worn-out Mrs. Clarke to go downstairsand have some hot tea, which the inn-keeper's wife had made ready.

  "It is better to leave the room in absolute quiet for a while," shesaid. "Nurse is keeping watch, and indeed the doctor says there is nofurther cause for anxiety."

  Mrs. Clarke's hand shook as she held her cup.

  "I can hardly realize yet that she is safe. Oh, if you knew how I havesuffered! My head is on fire. I want to go out into the air," shereplied pantingly.

  The light was breaking clearly in the east, and Miss Sherbourne openedthe front door. The two women stepped together into the garden.

  "Everything seems quiet," said Mrs. Clarke, looking up at Alison'swindow. "You are sure, if there is the slightest change, that Nurse willcall me? Then let us walk across the lawn. I want to talk to you. I mustspeak now--at once, while I have the courage."

  "Shall we sit here?" said Miss Sherbourne, indicating a bench that facedthe dawn.

  The hour was strangely beautiful. The sky, flushing in tints of rose andmauve, heralded the rising sun; the bushes were still masses of rich,warm shadow, but a group of turn-cap lilies stood out fair and goldenagainst the dark background, shedding their heavy fragrance around. Athrush had begun to stir in the laburnum tree, and piped his fine mellownotes; and a blackbird answered from the elm opposite. The world waswaking to another day of wonderful, pulsing life.

  "Weeping and heaviness may endure for a night, but joy cometh in themorning," murmured Aunt Barbara softly.

  Mrs. Clarke sat for a few moments gazing at the quiet scene. She wasstill intensely agitated, and kept clasping and unclasping her handsnervously upon her knee.

  "I must speak," she began again hurriedly. "If I do not tell you now,the resolution may go. When I saw my darling lie there, at the very gateof death, I knew it was a judgment upon me for my long silence--mycriminal silence."

  She paused, as if scarcely able to continue. She was weeping bitterly,and her restless fingers pulled to pieces a rose that she had pluckedfrom a bush as she passed.

  "I hardly know how to explain everything," she went on at last, "butperhaps it will make it clearer if I begin at the beginning, and relatethe story of my life. Have you the patience to hear it? My sisterMadeleine and I were twins. My mother died in our infancy, and left noother children, so we two were everything to each other. My father was aclever but eccentric man, a student and an astronomer. He had never beenfond of company, and after my mother's death he shut himself up moreclosely than ever, and became quite a recluse, devoting himself entirelyto his books and his telescope. Though he was fond of us in his way, wedid not see much of him, and he was always so reserved and silent thatwe were shy and constrained in his presence. When we were old enough toleave school, our life at home, in a remote country grange, with littlesociety to be had in the neighbourhood, was dull and triste in theextreme. Just after our twenty-first birthday, we made the acquaintanceof two brothers who were staying at a house in the adjoining parish, andthe friendship soon ripened into a warmer feeling on both sides.

  "David Clarke, the elder, fell in love with my sister Madeleine, andHerbert, the younger, with myself. When we broached the subject to myfather, however, he professed great indignation, and forbade either ofthe young Clarkes to come to the house. It was extremely arbitrary andunjust of him to behave thus, for he had no reasonable objections toraise against them. I can only imagine that he was annoyed that he hadnot been taken earlier into our confidence, and hurt that we wished toleave him. Perhaps, also, he may have had some other matrimonialprojects in his mind for us, though he never made the slightest attemptto introduce us to any suitable friends. Can you imagine the situation?Two impulsive, motherless girls in the lonely old house, with no one tocounsel us or help to smooth away any of our difficulties! Our lovershad business in India, and were shortly leaving the country; and theidea of parting from them was terrible to us. They pleaded and urged, sowhat wonder that there were clandestine meetings, and that one morningwe took the law into our own hands and made a double runaway match
ofit? We were both of age, and could therefore legally marry whom wechose.

  "We tried to make peace with our father after the weddings, but heutterly refused to see us, and we were obliged to start for Indiawithout having received his forgiveness. Within a year we had news ofhis death. I think he had been in failing health for some time, andperhaps on that account had been the more loath to part with us; but hehad shown us so little tenderness that we had never realized that hewished for our sympathy or affection. Now that I have a child of my own,I regret that I was not a better daughter to him. In his will he showedthat he had not pardoned either us or our husbands. He left only a smallannuity each to Madeleine and myself, and the bulk of his estate intrust for his first grandchild. My sister Madeleine's little girl wasborn a fortnight before mine, so it was she, and not Alison, whoinherited her grandfather's fortune. I was very angry at the injusticeof the proceeding. It seemed to me monstrously unfair that my littleone, because she came into the world a fortnight too late, should bedeprived of what in all equity ought to have been hers. I was the elderof the twins, and I considered that any preference should have been inmy favour. I was anxious to bring a lawsuit, and try to upset the willand cause the estate to be equally divided between my sister and myself,but our solicitor assured me I had no legal case, and should onlyinvolve myself in endless proceedings and costs. Madeleine and I weretoo much attached to each other to have an open quarrel, and before herI managed to hide my bitter disappointment. We were about to beseparated, for my husband was returning to England, while hers was stillremaining in India. I was thankful afterwards that we had parted on suchgood terms, for I never saw her again. Only a few days after our steamerstarted she succumbed to a sudden epidemic of cholera that swept overthe place where they were living, and the telegram announcing her deathmet me at Port Said. I had loved her dearly, and the blow was cruel. Butthere was a harder one still in store for me. My husband, whose illhealth had been the cause of our leaving India, became rapidly worse,and before I even realized the extent of the danger, he too was takenfrom me. In a single year I had lost father, sister, and husband, and attwenty-three I found myself a young widow, with an only child.

  "At this juncture my brother-in-law, David Clarke, returned to England,bringing his motherless baby in charge of an ayah. He did not intend tostay, only to settle a few necessary business matters and to make somearrangement for his little girl, who was delicate, and could not bereared in India. He had no near relations of his own who were willing tobe troubled with the child, so he asked me if I would undertake to bringher up with mine, and I accepted the charge. I was drawn to littleRosamond for her mother's sake, though I could never forgive her forbeing a fortnight older than her cousin. So everything was settled. Itook a house in Scotland for the summer, which I thought would behealthy for the children, and I sent Alison on there in advance with herown nurse. The ayah who had brought Rosamond from India was to return inthe same ship as my brother-in-law, who was starting immediately forMadras. He wanted to see his baby till the very last, so I accompaniedhim to London, taking with me Mrs. Burke, a respectable woman who hadonce been a maid at my father's house, and was now married, to act astemporary nurse after the ayah's departure.

  "When the last good-byes were said, and my brother-in-law and the ayahhad started, I found I wished to do some shopping in London before Iwent north. It is awkward and inconvenient to keep a baby at a hotel, soI determined to send Mrs. Burke with my little niece to Scotland, wheremy own responsible nurse was already settled in charge of Alison. I tookthem to the station and saw them safely off in the express. In a fewdays I intended to follow them. That very night, as I sat at dinner inthe hotel, I heard the newsboys shouting 'Special edition', and learntof a terrible northern railway smash. I set off by the first availabletrain for the scene of the disaster. It was impossible to get beyondBurkden, for the line was disorganized, but I hired a carriage and wenton to Greenfield. The first point to be ascertained was whether my niecewas among the victims. I wasted some time enquiring at the railwayoffices, and it was not till late in the afternoon that I saw anewspaper poster with the heading: 'Baby's Wonderful Escape from theAccident'. It was only after further investigations and delays that Ilearnt the child was being taken care of by its rescuer at the Red LionHotel. Do you remember how I came into the inn parlour that evening? Thescene is stamped vividly upon my memory. You sat by the fireside withthe baby on your knee; the light falling from the hanging lamp abovemade a picture of you both. It had taken a fancy to you, though it wasalways shy with me, and its soft little cheek was pressed against yourface. I looked at it, and I think if it had given one sign ofrecognition, or held out its arms to me, I should have claimed it. Butit took no notice at all, and my heart hardened against it. A terribletemptation assailed me. If I disowned the baby, nobody would ever knowits identity. It would be so easy to tell its father that it hadperished in the fire; there could be no positive evidence about any ofthe victims of the disaster. If it were out of the way, then my babywould inherit the fortune which I had always considered was my due. Iwas not left well off, and money meant so much to me. I had not beenbrought up to study economy, and I hated to be poor. I am a good judgeof character, and I knew from your face that you would not abandon thechild you had saved. I thought Fate had interfered forcibly, and hadgiven it into your keeping instead of mine. At the moment it seemed tome a direct interposition of Providence, and a sign that my father'sinheritance was not intended to be lost to me after all. Before me stooda great choice--the good of my sister's little one, or my own--and Ichose my own. The sequel proved easy--only too easy. I said the baby Ihad seen at the inn was not my niece, and nobody doubted my word. Mybrother-in-law and the ayah were already on their way to India, Mrs.Burke was dead, and no one else was likely to raise the question ofidentity. The portrait circulated in the newspapers was such a poorsnapshot that neither my nurse nor any of Mr. Clarke's relationsrecognized it. They had not known the child intimately; they had onlyseen her once or twice in her ayah's arms. Before I left the Red Lion atGreenfield I ascertained your name--I scarcely knew why; it seemed aninstinct at the moment. I wished to forget it, but it remained all thesame--one of those things which it is impossible to wine from one'sremembrance.

  "Years went by, years of prosperity, for in trust for Alison I was arich woman. I tried to banish all thoughts of Rosamond, and to justifymy action to myself, yet in my inmost heart I knew I had sinned. Forsome time I lived in the Midlands, but Leamstead did not suit my littlegirl's health, so I removed to Latchworth. When Alison started to go tothe College and I first saw Dorothy in the train, I was immediatelystruck with her appearance. I could not think of whom she reminded me;her eyes haunted me continually. One day I came home and found that shehad been at our house in my absence, and that Alison was full of herresemblance to the portrait of my sister Madeleine which hung in thedrawing room. Then I knew, even without the extra links that made theconnection only too plain--the story of her adoption, which Alison hadheard at school; the very name of Dorothy Greenfield, and your name,which I had not succeeded in forgetting. Alarmed at the recognition, Iforbade Alison to invite her again, and in every way in my powerdiscouraged the acquaintance between the two girls. I thought ofremoving from Latchworth, but I had taken my house on a lease and spentmuch on improving it. Everything appeared to conspire against me: firstAlison's extreme affection for Dorothy, then our meeting at the Hydro.,where my brother-in-law, unaware of her identity, was so charmed withhis daughter. Then came Alison's visit to your cottage on the afternoonwhen I fetched her in the pony trap. I at once recognized your servantas the one I had seen in the inn parlour at Greenfield, and I could tellby her face that she remembered me. It seemed as if Fate, whom I thoughtI had conquered so successfully, was dogging my footsteps. I felt myposition was most unsafe, and only yesterday afternoon I definitelydecided to sacrifice the improvements I had made at Lindenlea and toremove to the south of England, where there would be no further chanceof Dorothy crossing our
path.

  "As if in direct consequence of my determination followed this terribleaccident. It seemed to me like Heaven's vengeance on my sin. Was myinnocent child to suffer as the scapegoat for my wrongdoing? I vowed toGod that if in His mercy He would spare her life, I would make a fullconfession and reparation, no matter what it cost me. There, I have toldyou the whole. Do you despise me utterly? Can you possibly ever forgiveme that I deliberately thrust the child upon you, and let you bear soheavy a burden all this time? Her own father will be only too thankfulto take her now."

  Miss Sherbourne's face was turned towards the golden streak of dawn. Fora few moments she was silent.

  "We have both so much to be thankful for this morning, that it makes iteasier to forgive," she said at last. "Yes, the wrong must be righted,and father and daughter restored to each other; but I am glad I was ableto keep my little Dorothy for my own those fourteen happy years."