قراءة كتاب A Girl in Spring-Time
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class="narrative">“It is hard, dear, but there are harder trials than this, which we have to bear as we go through life, and you know—”
“Mardie, don’t preach! Don’t! I can’t bear it. How can it make it easier to know that other people have worse troubles? It makes it harder, for I have to be sorry for them as well as myself. It’s no use trying to reason; you had better leave me alone. If you say another word I—I—I shall—” Mildred’s voice broke, she struggled in vain against the rising sobs, and burying her face in her hands, burst into a storm of bitter weeping.
Miss Margaret did not try to check her, for she knew that tears would be a relief, and that after this outburst Mildred would be calmer and more reasonable. She patted her heaving shoulders and murmured caressing words from time to time.
“Dear Mildred! poor girl! I am so sorry,—we are all so sorry for you, dear. You know that—don’t you?”
Mildred cried on unrestrainedly, but by and by she nestled nearer to Mardie’s side, and a few broken phrases began to mingle with her sobs.
“Oh, Mardie, I don’t want—to be—so horrid! I’ll try—to be good.—But you don’t know—how—I feel—inside! All raging, desperate! It seems—as if—it can’t be true. I was so happy. It was so—near.”
“Yes, dear, yes; but, Mildred, listen to me. I know that nothing can make up for home or Mother, but I am not going away for two or three weeks, and we will have some cosey little times together—you and I. You shall sleep with me, we will have our meals in the south parlour, and we will go little expeditions on our own account, have tea in village inns, and botanise in the fields. The doctor’s daughter will be at home from school, she shall come and spend the day with you as often as you like, and you must help me to pick fruit and make jam. We will get some nice books too, and read aloud in the evenings. It won’t be so dreadful—will it, dear? Come, Mildred, if you cry like this I shall think you don’t care for me at all.”
“Oh, Mardie, I do! I love you, and I know you will be kind, but I’m—tired of school. I want Mother! I want Mother!” And down went the curly head once more, and Mildred burst into fresh floods of tears.
It was indeed a sad ending to a day which had dawned with such radiant promise.
Chapter Three.
Friends to the Rescue.
There was consternation downstairs when the news of Mildred’s disappointment was made public. The girls clustered together in groups, and talked with bated breath. The number of times that the words “fearful” and “awful” were used would have horrified Miss Chilton if she had been present, and one and all were agreed that their friend was the most pitiable creature upon earth.
Even the little sixth-form pupils were full of sympathy, for Mildred took more notice of them than any of the “big girls”, and even condescended, upon occasion, to spend a holiday afternoon helping them with their games and “dressings up.” Within ten minutes of hearing the news little Nina Behrends had scribbled a note on a leaf of an exercise-book, and fitted it into an envelope together with a bulky inclosure. She trotted upstairs and knocked at Miss Margaret’s door, and when Mildred peered out into the passage with her tear-stained eyes, the little mite pressed the package into her hands and scuttled away as fast as her legs would carry her.
Mildred opened the envelope with a feeling of bewilderment, which was certainly not decreased when she drew forth an aged piece of india-rubber, shaggy and frayed at the ends, as with the bites of tiny teeth. She turned to the note for an explanation, which was given in the following words:
Deer Mildred,
I hope you are quite well. I send you my injy-ruber. The thick side rubs out. I hope it will comfort you that you can’t go home.
So I remain,
Your little friend,
Nina.
Poor little Nina! The “injy-ruber” was one of her greatest treasures, and it had seemed to her that no other offering could so fitly express her love and pity.
The same impulse visited all the other girls in their turn. It was not enough to sympathise in words, it seemed absolutely necessary to do something; and before half an hour was over, every girl was rummaging through the contents of a newly-tidied desk, in search of some tribute which she might send to Mildred in her distress. Such a curious collection of presents as it was! Pencil boxes (more or less damaged); blotted blotters; “happy families” of ducks and rabbits congregated on circles of velvet; photograph frames; coloured slate-pencils;—it would be difficult to say what was not included in the list, while every gift was wrapped in a separate parcel, and offered in terms of tenderest affection.
Bertha Faucit was deputed to carry the presentations upstairs, and she found Mildred sitting upon the window-seat, gazing out into the garden with dreary, tear-stained eyes. There was nothing in the least like a Norse princess about her at this moment. She looked just what she was—a particularly lugubrious, unhappy, English school-girl. Her face lighted up with a gleam of pleasure when she saw her friend, however, for she had been alone for nearly an hour, while tea was going on downstairs, and was beginning to find the unusual silence oppressive.
“Oh, Mildred!” cried Bertha. “Oh, Bertha!” cried Mildred; then they collapsed into silence, gazing at each other with melancholy eyes.
“I can’t—go home!” said Mildred at last, speaking with heaving breath and suspicious gaps between the words. “I have to stay here all the holi—days—by myself! Eight weeks—fifty-six days! I think I shall go mad—I’m sure I shall! My head feels queer already!”
“That is because you have been crying. You will be better in the morning,” said Bertha, and her quiet, matter-of-fact voice sounded soothingly in her friend’s ears. “See, Mildred, the girls have sent you these little presents to show how sorry they are for your disappointment. We couldn’t go out to buy anything new, so you must excuse us if they are not quite fresh. I have brought my crayons,—you said the blue was a nicer colour than yours; Lois has chosen two texts for illuminating, and there are all sorts of things besides. See what a collection! Maggie Bruce has sent an exercise-book with the used leaves torn out. She said it was to be used as an album; and when we go home we are all going to ask our fathers for foreign stamps, and send them on to you. Don’t you want to look at all the other things?”
Bertha had laid the parcels in a row along the floor, and Mildred now took up one after another and examined the contents, while at one moment she laughed, and at the next her eyes ran over with tears.
“How good of them all—how kind! Poor little Nina Behrends presented me with her ‘injy-ruber’ before tea. It is so dirty that it would spoil anything it touched, but it was sweet of the little thing to think of it. A note from Carrie. Poor old Elsie—fancy sending me this! What a nice frame; I’ll put your photograph in it, Bertha. Slate-pencils! does she think I am going to do sums in the holidays? Oh, Bertha, don’t think me horrid, but people seem to me to have a very queer idea of comfort! Miss Margaret sent up strawberry jam and
