Chapter XV: Trouble at Greystone

FOR once, Gerald had gone too far, as he discovered on the following day, when, for punishment, his governess insisted on keeping him locked up in his bedroom. In vain, he cried and protested against such treatment, Miss Conway was like adamant, and the boy had perforce to endure twenty-four hours of solitary confinement with no one to speak to, no one to play with, and nothing to do. A more salutary mode of punishment could not have been devised; and in consequence, Gerald appeared at the breakfast-table on the morning following his imprisonment, in a subdued and repentant frame of mind. He said he was sorry for his past conduct; but he could not extract a promise from either Miss Conway or Margaret that his father should not be informed of the anxiety and trouble he had caused the whole household.

Margaret had caught a severe cold on the night of the storm, and spent the next few days shivering over the schoolroom fire, too unwell for lessons. Gerald's escapade had been a shock to her; she was overwrought and languid, and when, on the morning of the day that Mr. and Mrs. Fowler were expected home, she began to dress she felt so shaky that she went back to bed again.

"Not up yet, Margaret?" asked Miss Conway's voice outside the door, half-an-hour later.

"No," was the reply. "I am so sorry, but my cold is very bad, and I have such a dreadful headache."

The governess entered the room immediately on hearing this and approached the bed. After kissing Margaret with affectionate concern, she felt her pulse and declared her to be a little feverish.

"Stay where you are, my dear," she said kindly. "Why, you're shivering. Ross shall bring you a hot-water bottle for your feet and light the fire; then, I have no doubt, if you lie in bed and nurse your cold, you will soon be better."

"I am so vexed, because mother and father are coming home to-night," Margaret sighed.

"I daresay you will be well enough to get up by the evening," Miss Conway responded hopefully. "I shall be with Gerald as usual, but I shall tell Ross to devote herself to you. If you want me, do not hesitate to send for me."

Margaret could eat no breakfast, but she took a few sips of the milk Ross brought her a short while later, and afterwards fell into an uneasy sleep. The maid, moving about softly, lit the fire and dusted the room, then turned her attention to the flushed face on the pillow.

"Poor little thing, she does look poorly," she murmured. "And it's all on account of that tiresome child, Master Gerald. 'Tis a shame of the mistress to spoil him so; everyone can see but her that she's ruining him, allowing him his own way as she does."

Margaret moved restlessly and began to mutter. Ross bent over her, and caught the sound of Gerald's name. She laid her cool hand softly against the little girl's cheek and felt how it burnt.

"She's very feverish," she thought. "I do hope she isn't going to be really ill. A nice home-coming it will be for master, if she is. I wonder if the mistress would trouble much?"

Roes moved away to the fireplace, and taking up some sewing-work, stitched industriously, every now and again glancing towards the restless sleeper.

Suddenly the little girl uttered a shriek and sprang up in bed, whereupon Ross dropped her work and hastened to the bedside.

"What is it, dear?" she asked, putting her arms around Margaret's quivering form. "You've had a bad dream, I expect—but it was only a dream. See, now, don't tremble so, you're perfectly safe with Ross."

"Where's Gerald?" Margaret demanded in a strange, hoarse voice.

"Doing his lessons with Miss Conway."

"Where's Gerald?" the little girl reiterated.

Ross repeated her former answer, but it did not appear to satisfy Margaret.

"Let me go and look for him," she said in a tone of distress.

"No, dear; you're not well, you must lie down again."

"You won't let me go!" Margaret struggled a minute in Ross' restraining arms, then sank back on the pillow. "I know why you won't let me go," she cried; "he's dead. He's drowned."

"No, no, darling, he's perfectly safe. Dear Miss Margaret, you've been dreaming."

"He's drowned!" the little girl insisted. "And who's going to tell mother? Oh, it will kill her!"

"Miss Margaret, I solemnly declare Master Gerald's living and well," said Ross, growing more and more concerned. "I wouldn't tell you a story, why should I? You're poorly, dear, and you've had a bad dream."

But Margaret wandered on: "Listen to the rain beating against the window, and the wind howling. And Gerald is out in it all! If he is on the beach, he will be blown into the sea. Look at that great wave! Oh, it has carried him away!" and she uttered a heartrending cry.

"It is a lovely day," Ross assured her; "the sun is shining, and the sea is quite blue and calm. You've been dreaming about the storm, miss, and fancying all sorts of horrors that never happened."

Margaret's blue eyes, wide open, were fixed upon Ross' face, but she evidently had not followed what the woman had said, for after a short silence she began to mutter distressfully about Gerald again.

Ross was now exceedingly alarmed. She rang the bell, and sent for Miss Conway, who, in her turn, tried to pacify the sick child. But Margaret paid no more attention to her governess than she had to Ross.

"I am afraid she is going to be very ill," Miss Conway said in much distress. "All her trouble seems to be about her brother. Fetch him, Ross; perhaps the sight of him will satisfy her."

So Gerald was brought to his sister's bedside. He was somewhat frightened when told Margaret was ill; but in obedience to Miss Conway, he stooped over the bed to kiss her. She, however, pushed him away with feverish strength, and covered her eyes with her hand.

"Take him away!" she cried. "What is that strange boy doing here?"

"It's Gerald, dear Margaret," said the governess softly. "Your own brother come to show you that he is quite well, and—"

"No, no; Gerald's drowned, I tell you! Oh, what will mother say? She loves him so."

At this point, Gerald, realising that there was something very strange and unusual about his sister, began to cry, and was hurried out of the room.

Thoroughly shocked, Miss Conway sent a groom to N— immediately, to fetch a doctor; and within a few hours, the news had spread through the village of Yelton that the little girl at Greystone was very ill. Mr. Amyatt, as soon as he heard the tidings, considerately invited Gerald to spend the remainder of the day at the Vicarage; and Salome Petherick arrived at the back door of Greystone in the afternoon to make inquiries.

The cook, who had been stewing beef-tea, insisted on Salome's coming inside and resting in her easy-chair.

"Mrs. Moyle told me of Miss Margaret's illness," the lame girl said, her face expressive of the deepest concern. "I hope it is nothing serious?"

"I am afraid it is, my dear," was the grave rejoinder. "It's inflammation of the lungs. Dr. Vawdry has been here from N—, and he's coming again this evening. He says she's very ill; and if Mr. and Mrs. Fowler had not been returning to-night, they'd have been telegraphed for. Oh, dear, dear, I do trust the poor child's life may be spared! She's not been well for days, not since the night of the storm, when Master Gerald led us all such a dance after him. He's the one to be blamed for this. For once, I should think the mistress would see that."

And the woman poked the fire viciously, as though the act was a vent for her feelings. "She's the nicest, sweetest, little creature I ever knew is Miss Margaret," she proceeded, "with always a kind word for us servants. Ross says she doesn't recognise anyone; she didn't know Master Gerald, and her incessant cry is that he is drowned. If only Miss Conway had turned the key in his bedroom door on the night of the storm. She kept him locked up the next day, and it broke his rebellious spirit—quite. She'd soon get him under subjection if his mother didn't pamper him so. Don't you take on, now, about Miss Margaret, my dear; maybe she'll get over this attack all right. She's young and healthy, and she'll have good nursing, and everything money can buy. I ordered some lean, gravy beef the minute I heard she was ill, but the doctor won't allow her anything but milk and soda water, so there's plenty of strong beef-tea going begging, and you'd better have a cupful. Will you have bread with it? Yes. I'm sure it will do you good."

Salome was very glad of some refreshment. She took the beef-tea, whilst the cook talked on without waiting for replies; but when she rose to go, having learnt all there was to know, her heart was very heavy indeed. Her eyes were full of unshed tears as she passed out of the Greystone grounds, and commenced her descent of the hill. As she went by the church, she wondered if she would ever hear Miss Margaret practising on the organ again.

And she was so engrossed with her sorrowful thoughts, that she was startled when, on reaching the Vicarage gate, a voice addressed her from inside. "Hi, Salome! Where have you been?"

She paused and looked at the speaker, Gerald Fowler, who was peering at her laughingly between the bars of the gate. The boy was in high spirits at being the Vicar's guest, and he had not been informed that his sister was really seriously ill. He had been frightened when Margaret had failed to recognise him, but the impression he had then received had passed, and he was delighted at having this unexpected holiday.

"I've been to Greystone, Master Gerald," Salome returned quietly.

"To see Margaret, I suppose? She's ill, you know."

"Yes, and I am so grieved and sorry."

"Oh, I expect she'll soon be better!" Gerald remarked confidently.

"I hope so," the lame girl replied dubiously. "But the doctor says she has inflammation of the lungs."

"Does that ever kill people, Salome?"

"Yes, Master Gerald, very often."

"But Margaret won't die, will she? You don't think that, do you?"

"No one can tell—but God. We must ask Him to take care of her. Oh, Master Gerald, see what has come of your ill conduct!"

"What do you mean?" he inquired in amazement. "It isn't my fault that Margaret's ill."

"Oh, yes, indeed it is! If you had not gone down to the beach on the night of the storm, she would not have got drenched to the skin and have caught such a dreadful cold. Oh, yes, it was your fault!" And Salome looked at him severely.

His blue eyes filled with sudden tears, and his rosy cheeks paled as he gasped, "Oh, I never thought—I never thought—"

"No, I don't suppose you did, Master Gerald, or if you did, it was yourself you thought of and no one else," Salome cried indignantly. "You 're the most selfish little boy I know."

"You 're very unkind, and—and nasty."

"I daresay you think I am; but I love Miss Margaret, and I know you've been the cause of her illness. I wonder what your mother and father will say."

"Mother will say it was not my fault," Gerald declared stoutly. "I couldn't tell Margaret would be silly enough to go to look for me; and I think you'd better mind your own business, Salome Petherick," he concluded.

He was impressed by the lame girl's plain speaking, and put on a show of anger to hide the fact.

She shook her head at him gravely, as she turned away from the Vicarage gate and went down the hill.

When she reached home, she lit the fire and boiled the kettle for tea, and by that time her father had appeared upon the scene, having had a good catch of fish. His face grew grave when Salome told him of Margaret's illness, and he expressed great regret, for he was grateful to the Fowlers for the notice they had taken of his child. And he volunteered to go to Greystone later on and inquire for the poor little sufferer. This he accordingly did, and brought back the news that Dr. Vawdry had visited the patient again, and had declared her to be dangerously ill, but that Mr. and Mrs. Fowler had not yet come. The carriage had gone to N— to meet them at the railway station, as had been arranged, and they were expected very soon now.

"Don't take on so, my dear," said Josiah kindly, as he noticed Salome's brown eyes full of tears. "The little maid'll pull through, please God. I am grieved about her though—s'pose 'twas you," and he looked at his child with great affection as he reflected on the uncertainty of life. And because it would please her, and with the laudable desire of keeping her from dwelling too much on the thought of Margaret's illness, he spent the evening in her company, and that night his associates at the "Crab and Cockle" looked for him in vain.