A CHASE, AND ITS CONSEQUENCES.
“There’s the pedlar! Oh dear! and just as mother has gone out!” cried
Polly, who on beginning her afternoon business of nurse to the little
children, saw, or thought that she saw, at the end of her lane, a man
with a pack travelling along the high-road. “There he is. Oh, if I
could only stop him, or if any one would look after the baby whilst I
am gone! Minnie Wingfield! Ah, how stupid I am to forget that she is
now at the afternoon school! I think that baby would keep very quiet
for five minutes; he cannot roll out of his cradle. But Johnny, he’d be
tumbling down, or setting the cottage on fire; I cannot leave him for
a minute by himself.--Johnny,” said she suddenly, “I want to catch the
pedlar and see his pretty things; will you come with me, like a good
little boy?”
Johnny scrambled to his feet in a moment, to the full as eager as
herself. Polly held his fat little hand tight within her own, and began
running as fast as she could drag him along. But the poor child’s round
heavy figure and short steps were altogether unsuited for anything like
a race. Polly felt him as a dead weight hanging to her arm. In vain she
pulled, dragged, and jerked, now began to encourage, and now to scold;
poor Johnny became tired, frightened, and out of breath, and at last
fairly tumbled upon his face.
“Get up--I’m in such a hurry!”--no answer but a roar. “Stupid child!
he’ll be gone!”--Johnny bellowed louder than before. “There, I’ll
leave you on the road, you great tiresome boy; you have half pulled out
my arm with dragging you on. I’ll leave you there, and silly Sally may
get you.”
Then, without heeding the poor little child’s cries and entreaties that
she would stop, as he lay on the ground, half suffocated with sobs,
Polly Bright, thinking only of the prize which her vanity made her so
much desire, hastened after the pedlar.
[Illustration: POOR SALLY.]
Silly Sally, who has been twice mentioned in my tale, was a poor
idiot-woman who lived with some kind neighbours on a common about two
miles from the village. She was perfectly harmless, and therefore
allowed to go about with freedom wherever she chose; but the terrible
misfortune, alas! exposed her to the scorn and sometimes even
persecution of wicked children, who made the worst use of the senses
left them, by tormenting one already so much afflicted. Poor Sally used
to wander about the lanes, uttering her unmeaning sound. Perhaps even
she had some pleasure in life, when the sun shone brightly and the
flowers were out, for she would gather the wild roses from the bank, or
the scarlet poppies from the field, and weave them into garlands for
her head. Nothing pleased her more than when she found a long feather
to add to her gaudy wreath. If the poor witless creature had delight
in making herself gay, Polly at least had no right to laugh at her.
Timid and easily frightened, the idiot felt a nervous terror for
schoolboys, for which they had given her but too much cause. She had
been hooted at, even pelted with mud, pursued with laughter like a
hunted beast. Twice had Minnie to interfere with her brother, pleading
even with tears for one so helpless and unhappy. If there be anything
more brutal and hateful than cruelty to a harmless animal, it is
heartless barbarity to a defenceless idiot--to one who bears our image,
is descended from our race, and whose only crime is the being most
unfortunate. Deal gently, dear children, with the poor senseless idiot;
we trust that there is a place in heaven even for him. The powers
denied him in this world may be granted in the next; and in a brighter
realm, although never here below, he may be found at his Lord’s feet,
_clothed and in his right mind_.
On hastened the little girl, breathless and panting. At the place
where the roads joined she looked anxiously up the highway, to see if
she had not been mistaken in her distant view of the traveller. No;
there was the pedlar, pack and all, and no mistake, but walking more
briskly than might have been expected from his burden and the warmth of
the afternoon. His pack must have been much lightened since he first
set out with it.
Polly called out; but he either did not hear, or did not attend. The
wind was blowing the dust in her face, she was tired with her vain
attempts to drag poor Johnny, her shoes were down at heel and hindered
her running; for it by no means follows that those who wish to be fine
care to be tidy also. But the brooch of false diamonds--the coveted
brooch--the thought of that urged her on to still greater efforts; even
the remembrance of her swelled nose was lost in the hope of possessing
such a beautiful ornament. Polly, as she shuffled hastily along, saw
more than one person meet the pedlar. If they would but stop him--if
only for one minute--to give her time to get up with him at last. No
one stopped him--how fast he seemed to walk! Polly’s face was flushed
and heated, her hair hung about her ears--would that we were as eager
and persevering in the pursuit of what really is precious, as the girl
was in that of a worthless toy!
At last her gasped-out “Stop!” reached the ear of the pedlar. He
paused and turned round, and in a few minutes more his pack was opened
to the admiring eyes of Polly. Ah, how she coveted this thing and
that! how she wished that her six pennies were shillings instead! A
cherry-coloured neckerchief, a pink silk lace, a large steel pin,
and a jewelled ring,--how they took her fancy, and made her feel how
difficult it is to decide when surrounded by many things alike tempting!
[Illustration: POLLY AND THE PEDLAR.]
But at last the wonderful brooch of false diamonds was produced.
There was only one left in the pedlar’s stock. How fortunate did Polly
think it that it also had not been sold! Neckerchief, lace, pin, or
ring was nothing compared to this. She tried it on, had some doubts of
the strength of the pin, tried in vain to obtain a lessening of the
price. It ended in the girl’s placing all her pence in the hand of the
pedlar, and carrying home her prize with delight. She had had her wish.
Her vanity was gratified--the brooch was her own; but to possess is not
always to enjoy.
Polly returned to her cottage with much slower steps; she was heated,
and tired, and perhaps a little conscious that she had not been
faithful to her trust. As she came near her home she quickened her
pace, for to her surprise she heard voices within, and voices whose
tones told of anxiety and fear. These were the words which struck her
ear, and made her pause ere she ventured to enter,--
“What a mercy it is that I returned for the basket that I had
forgotten! If I had not, what would have become of my poor babe!”
exclaimed Mrs. Bright in much agitation.
“I can’t understand how it happened,” replied another voice, which
Polly knew to be that of Mrs. Wingfield.
“You may well say that,” said the mother. Polly could hear that she
was rocking her chair backwards and forwards, as she sometimes did
when hushing the sick child to sleep. “I left Polly in charge of the
children: I came back to find her gone, and my poor, poor baby in a
fit.”
Polly turned cold, and trembled so that she could hardly stand.
“Is there no one who could go for a doctor?” continued the agitated
mother; “another fit may come on--I would give the world to see him!”
“I am so feeble,” replied Mrs. Wingfield, “that I am afraid--”
“Take the baby, then, and I’ll go myself; not a moment is to be lost.”
“No, no; there’s my boy Tom,” cried Mrs. Wingfield, as she saw her son
run hastily into her little cottage, which was just opposite to Mrs.
Bright’s.
“Oh, send him, in mercy send him!” cried the mother; and her neighbour
instantly crossed over to fulfil her wishes, passing Polly as she did
so, and looking at her with mingled surprise and scorn, though in too
much haste to address her.
“My boy, my own darling!” murmured the anxious mother, pressing her
sick child to her bosom, “what will your father say when he hears of
this?” Except her low, sad voice, the cottage was so still that the
very silence was terrible to Polly; it would have been a relief to have
heard the feeble, fretful wail which had made her feel impatient so
often.
With pale, anxious face and noiseless step, dreading to meet her
mother’s eye, the unhappy girl stole into the cottage. There sat Mrs.
Bright, her bonnet thrown back from her head, her hair hanging loose,
her gaze fixed upon the child in her arms; whilst the poor little
babe, with livid waxen features and half-closed eyes, lay so quiet,
and looked so terribly ill, that but for his hard breathing his sister
would have feared that his life had indeed passed away.
Mrs. Bright raised her head as Polly entered, and regarded her with
a look whose expression of deep grief was even more terrible than
anger. She asked no question; perhaps the misery in which she saw the
poor girl made her unwilling to add to her suffering by reproach; or
perhaps, and this was Polly’s own bitter thought, she considered her
unworthy of a word. Whatever was the cause, no conversation passed
between them, except a few short directions from the mother about
things connected with the comfort of the baby, as poor Polly, with an
almost bursting heart, tried to do anything and everything for him.
[Illustration: POLLY IN DISGRACE.]
In the meantime Tom had gone for the doctor, though with an
unwillingness and desire to delay which had made his mother both
surprised and indignant.
“He should go by the fields,” he said, though he well knew that to
be the longest way; and he would have done so, had not Mrs. Wingfield
roused herself to such anger, that even her rude and undutiful son did
not dare to disobey her.
The doctor came in about an hour, Tom having happily found him at home,
and, with an anxiety which those who have attended beloved ones in the
hour of sickness only can tell, Mrs. Bright and Polly listened for his
opinion of the case. The doctor examined the child, and asked questions
concerning his illness: “How long had the fit lasted?” There was a
most painful pause. Mrs. Bright looked at her daughter. Polly could
not utter a word; it was not till the question was repeated that the
distressing reply, “No one knows,” was given.
“Was the child long ailing?”
“How was he when you left him?” said Mrs. Bright to the miserable
Polly.
“Very well--that’s to say--I don’t exactly--he was--I think--”
“There has been gross negligence here,” said the doctor sternly; “gross
negligence,” he repeated, “and it may cost the child his life.”
Polly could only clasp her hands in anguish; but the mother exclaimed,
“Oh, sir, is there no hope for my boy?”
“While there is life there is hope,” replied the doctor in a more
kindly tone; “he must be bled at once. Have you a basin here?” he
added, taking a small instrument-case from his pocket.
Polly was at all times timid and nervous, and quite unaccustomed to
self-command, and now, when she would have given worlds to have been
useful, her hand shook so violently, her feelings so overcame her, that
there was no chance of her doing anything but harm.
“Give the basin to me, dear,” said a gentle voice behind her; Minnie
Wingfield had just entered the cottage. “You look so ill, you must not
be present. Go up-stairs, Polly; I will help your mother.”
“Oh, what shall I do?” cried the miserable girl, wringing her hands.
“Go and pray,” whispered Minnie as she glided from her side; and Polly,
trembling and weeping, slowly went up the narrow wooden staircase, and
entering her little chamber, sank down upon her knees.
“Oh, spare him, only spare him, my darling little brother!” she could
at first utter no other words. She had never loved the baby as she did
now, when she feared that she might be about to lose him, and bitterly
she lamented her own impatient temper that had made her weary of the
duty of tending him. Oh, that we would so act towards our relations,
that if death should remove any one from our home, our grief should
not be embittered by the thought, “I was no comfort or blessing to him
while he was here, and now the opportunity of being so is gone for
ever!”
But the most terrible thought to Polly was, that the baby’s danger
might be partly owing to her neglect. Should he die--should the little
darling be taken away--could her mother ever forgive her? As Polly
sobbed in an agony of grief, something fell from her bosom upon the
floor; she started at the sight of her forgotten brooch, that which
she had coveted so much, that which had cost her so dear. Snatching it
up, and springing to her feet, with a sudden impulse she ran to the
window, and flung it far out into the lane. Then once more falling on
her knees, again she prayed, but more calmly, and she implored not only
that the baby might live, but that her own weak, vain heart might be
cleansed, that she might henceforth live not only for herself, but do
her duty as a faithful servant of God. She rose somewhat comforted, and
creeping down-stairs, listened ere she ventured to enter the little
parlour.
“I hope that he may do well now. I shall send something for him
to-night. Keep him quiet. I shall call here to-morrow.” These were
the doctor’s parting words, and they were a great relief to Polly.
She came in softly, and bent down by the baby, now laid again in his
little cradle, and looking white as the sheet that was over him; she
would have kissed his thin, pale face, but she feared to disturb the
poor child. Her heart was full of mingled sorrow and love; she felt as
though she could never bear to leave him again.
“Thank you, Minnie, my girl,” said Mrs. Bright earnestly; “you have
been a real comfort to me in my time of need. Your mother is a happy
woman to have such a child.”
“Can I do anything else for you now?” said Minnie; “if you would allow
me to sit up instead of you to-night?”
“No, no; I could not close an eye. But I should be glad if you would
bring Johnny home, my dear; it is near his bed-time, and I do not think
that he will disturb the baby.”
“I will bring him with pleasure; where is he?” said Minnie.
“Where is he?” repeated Mrs. Bright; “is he not at your home?”
“No; he has not been there all day.” Polly started as if she had been
stabbed.
“Then where is he?” cried Mrs. Bright, looking anxiously round. “Is he
up-stairs, Polly?” The miserable girl shook her head. Her fears for the
baby had made her quite forget her little brother, and it now flashed
across her mind that she had not passed him in the lane, when she had
retraced her steps to the cottage. Where could he have gone, where
could he be now?
Mrs. Bright had endured much, but her cup seemed now to overflow. She
walked close up to Polly, laid a heavy grasp upon her shoulder, and
said, in a tone which the girl remembered to her dying day, “When was
your brother last with you?”
“About two hours ago, just before you returned home,” faltered Polly.
“And where did you leave him?”
“In the lane, near the high-road.”
“Go and find him,” said the mother, between her clenched teeth, “or
never let me set eyes on you again!”
Polly rushed out of the cottage, and began her anxious search up and
down the lane, by the hedge, in the ditch, along the road, asking
every person that she met, and from every one receiving the same
disheartening answer. No one had seen the boy, no one could think
what had become of him. He was too young to have wandered far; had he
run towards the road, he must have been met by Polly--if the other
way, he must have been seen by his mother; he could not have got over
the hedge; there was no possibility of his having lost his way. Many
neighbours joined in the search; many pitied the unhappy mother, but
she was less to be pitied than Polly.
[Illustration]