"I'm better now," she said.

Then she rose from the deep arm-chair, stood up, and put her two hands on Fly's shoulder.

"What have I done? What do you accuse me of?"

"Don't! You hurt me, Flower; your hands are so hard."

"I'll take them off. What have I done?"

"We are awfully sorry you came here. We all are; we all are."

"Yes? you can be sorry or glad, just as you please! What have I done?"

"You have made father, our own father--you have made him ill. The doctor thinks perhaps he'll die, and in any case he will be blind."

"What horrid things you say, child! _I_ haven't done this."

"Yes. Father was out all last night. You took baby away, and he went to look for her, and he wasn't well before, and he got a chill. It was a bad chill, and he has been ill all day. You did it, but he wasn't your father. We are all so dreadfully sorry that you came here."

Flower's hands dropped to her sides. Her eyes curiously dilated, looked past Fly, gazing so intently at something which her imagination conjured up that the child glanced in a frightened way over her shoulder.

"What's the matter, Flower? What are you looking at?"

"Myself."

"But you can't see yourself."

"I can. Never mind. Is this true what you have been telling me?"

"Yes, it's quite true. I wish it was a dream, and I might wake up out of it."

"And you all put this thing at my door?"

"Yes, of course. Dr. Strong said--Dr. Strong has been here twice this evening--he said it was because of last night."

"_Sometimes we can never give back what we take away._" These few words came back to Flower now.

"And you all hate me?" she said, after a pause.

"We don't love you, Flower; how could we?"

"You hate me?"

"I don't know. Father wouldn't like us to hate anybody."

"Where's Helen?"

"She's in father's room."

"And Polly?"

"Polly is in bed. She's ill, too, but not in danger, like father. The doctor says that Polly is not to know about father for at any rate a day, so please be careful not to mention this to her, Flower."

"No fear!"

"Polly is suffering a good deal, but she's not unhappy, for she doesn't know about father."

"Is baby very ill, too?"

"No. Nurse says that baby has escaped quite wonderfully. She was laughing when I saw her last. She has only a little cold."

"I am glad that I gave her to your father myself," said Flower, in a queer, still voice. "I'm glad of that. Is David anywhere about?"

"No. He's at the farm. He's to sleep there to-night with Bob and Bunny, for there mustn't be a stir of noise in the house."

"Well, well, I'd have liked to say good-by to David. You're quite sure, Fly, that you all think it was _I_ made your father ill?"

"Why, of course. You know it was."

"Yes, I know. Good-by, Fly."

"Good-night, you mean. Don't you want something to eat?"

"No. I'm not hungry now. It isn't good-night; it's good-by."

Flower walked slowly down the long, low, dark room, opened the door, shut it after her, and disappeared.

Fly stood for a moment in an indifferent att.i.tude at the table. She was relieved that Flower had at last left her, and took no notice of her words.

Flower went back to her room. Again she shut and locked her door. The queer mood which had been on her all day, half repentance, half petulance, had completely changed. It takes a great deal to make some people repent, but Flower Dalrymple was now indeed and in truth facing the consequences of her own actions. The words she had said to Fly were quite true. She had looked at herself. Sometimes that sight is very terrible. Her fingers trembled, her whole body shook, but she did not take a moment to make up her mind. They all hated her, but not more than she hated herself. They were quite right to hate her, quite right to feel horror at her presence. Her mother had often spoken to her of the consequences of unbridled pa.s.sion, but no words that her mother could ever have used came up to the grim reality. Of course, she must go away, and at once. She sat down on the side of her bed, pressed her hand to her forehead, and reflected. In the starved state she was in, the little drop of wine she had taken had brought on a violent headache. For a time she found it difficult to collect her thoughts.

CHAPTER XI.

THE WORTH OF A DIAMOND.

Flower quite made up her mind to go away again. Her mood, however, had completely changed. She was no longer in a pa.s.sion; on the contrary, she felt stricken and wounded. She would go away now to hide herself, because her face, her form, the sound of her step, the echo of her voice, must be painful to those whom she had injured. She shuddered as she recalled Firefly's sad words:

"Father says it is wrong to hate any one, but, of course, we cannot love you."

She felt that she could never look Polly in the face again, that Helen's gentle smile would be torture to her. Oh, of course she must go away; she must go to-night.

She was very tired, for she had really scarcely rested since her fit of mad pa.s.sion, and the previous night she had never gone to bed. Still all this mattered nothing. There was a beating in her heart, there was a burning sting of remorse awakened within her, which made even the thought of rest impossible.

Flower was a very wild and untaught creature; her ideas of right and wrong were of the crudest. It seemed to her now that the only right thing was to run away.