_Molly Comes to Lake Desolate_
During the next two hours, while Molly searched the remainder of the
road, and the lonely country that lay between the road and the hills on
either side, she kept thinking of the letter. And it worried her. She
could not make up her mind whether the letter was genuine or not. At
first she thought it really was from Old Nancy, and then, because she
had resolved to trust no one, she began to suspect that the man on the
horse was another of the Pumpkin’s spies and that the letter was faked.
“One part was true,” Molly argued to herself. “About the watchmaker ...
but then, the spies would know by now that I have found out about the
watchmaker, and _they_ would not mind telling me news I already know if
they thought it would make the letter seem more genuine. But why should
they warn me about this ‘blind’ woman—unless.... Oh, I don’t know. I
wonder if it really _is_ from Old Nancy, after all! I wish I had some
means of finding out.” And then, after another ten minutes’ search: “I
believe it really is from Old Nancy—I’m getting too distrustful,” she
said. “Anyway, I’ll wait until I reach Lake Desolate—and then decide.”
Molly climbed to the top of one of the hills, and from there caught her
first glimpse of the Lake. It was not far away now; but it was actually
no more than a glimpse of the water that she got, because of the hills
that surrounded it. She descended the hill, searching all the time—for
it would not do to pass by any likely spot in her anxiety to reach some
other spot, even if the latter did sound a more probable place for the
Black Leaf to be growing in.
Although the water had not looked far away, yet it seemed a long time
to Molly before she reached Lake Desolate. Climbing round the side of
one of the hills, she at length saw the Lake immediately below her.
It was a great stretch of water, silent, dark, and mysterious, around
which the hills stood like sentinels. Across the surface of the
water strange birds hovered, flapping their wings and uttering weird
‘screechings,’ as Mrs Jennet had said. Every now and again they would
swoop down on the water, or dart across to some trees and rocks on the
opposite shore. Molly glanced anxiously around the shores of the Lake,
but could not see anything moving, except the birds.
Gradually she made her way down the hillside and stood for a while
gazing into the dark, still water. It was well named Lake Desolate,
thought Molly, for never had she seen such a deserted, lonely place.
As she looked across to the hills beyond, a slight sound made her turn
her head. Her heart began to beat rapidly, for coming slowly along the
shore of the Lake toward her was a woman dressed in a long, grey cloak.
She had a stick in her hand, which she tapped on the ground in front of
her, as blind people do.
Molly stood perfectly motionless, so that the blind woman should
not hear her move and know that any one was near. The woman came
on hesitatingly, tap, tap, tapping with her stick. Molly watched
her. The woman passed within a short distance of where Molly was
standing—stopped; listened; then moved on.
At that moment one of Molly’s feet slipped a little, and the stones on
which she was standing moved, and several trickled down and fell with
a _plomp_ into the water. The woman stopped immediately; while Molly
bit her lip at her own carelessness.
“Is any one there?” asked the woman, turning, and facing in the
direction whence the sound had come.
Molly did not answer, but looked straight at the woman. And as she
looked, a puzzled expression came over Molly’s face. Where had she seen
the blind woman’s face before? She _had_ seen it; of this she felt
certain, and yet— Then suddenly Molly knew. It was the same face that
she had seen in Mrs Jennet’s photo album. It was the face of Miss Lydia!
This discovery gave Molly a shock, and sent all her thoughts and plans
tumbling helter-skelter over each other. What was she to do now?
Meanwhile, as no reply had been given to her question, the blind
woman sighed, and passed on. Molly did not know what to do, or whom
to believe. She had never been wrong before in trusting one of her
friend’s friends; and this certainly looked like the Miss Lydia of
whom Mrs Jennet had spoken. But _had_ Old Nancy written that letter?
If so, she would, of course, trust her before any one, and obey her
instructions.
“I can’t find out who wrote the letter, at least, not yet,” thought
Molly. “But I can find out if she really is Miss Lydia.”
Her mind made up, she stepped forward a few paces, and called in a
clear voice:
“There _is_ some one here. Can I help you?”
The blind woman turned eagerly, and groped her way back toward the
voice.
“Oh, I am so glad to hear some one speak again—but who are you? Are
you a friend?” asked the woman anxiously. “I am so helpless, you know,
and—and——”
“I am willing to be your friend, if— But who are you?” asked Molly.
“What is your name?”
“My name is Lydia North,” replied the woman. “And I live in a little
cottage—up there—somewhere”—she waved her arm vaguely. “On the side
of the Giant’s Head.... Oh, tell me who you are, please!”
“I am a little girl,” answered Molly. “And if you are truly Miss
Lydia—I am your friend. Tell me what I can do for you.”
“Will you lead me back to my home again? I cannot find my way from
here, there seem to be hills all round that shut me in. I cannot find
the way out and I am afraid of walking into the water; I nearly fell in
just now.”
“How did you get here, Miss Lydia?” asked Molly. “I was hoping to meet
you at your cottage—Mrs Jennet told me about you—told me to call and
see you.... But I didn’t know that you were—blind.”
“I wasn’t—until the day before yesterday—I think it was the day
before yesterday; it seems a long time ago. I am not used to being
blind yet, and feel so helpless. I’m so glad you are a friend of good
Mrs Jennet’s—then I can trust you,” said Miss Lydia.
This was something new for Molly to have people doubtful whether she
could be trusted; it was generally the other way about. But when she
had heard Miss Lydia’s story she quite understood. It seemed that Miss
Lydia had been away from home for a fortnight, staying with her sister
in the City, and had returned home the day before yesterday.
“When I reached my cottage gate,” she continued, “I heard something
coming behind me—a sort of soft, rolling sound. Then something touched
me—and I could not see any more. I found my way into the cottage
somehow—I live alone. I kept thinking my sight would come back. But it
did not come back. And this morning—I knew it was morning by the cocks
crowing and the clock striking—I started out, determined to find my
way down to the High Road which runs below the hill, so that I might
get help. But I lost my way. Presently I heard some one walking past
me, and they offered to set me right for the High Road, but they led me
here, and then they laughed and went away....”
“I suppose you knew who it was that touched you and made you blind?”
said Molly.
“I didn’t see any one,” answered Miss Lydia. “But I can guess.”
Poor Miss Lydia, another of the Pumpkin’s victims! Molly felt very
sorry for her helplessness in this deserted place. Molly was fairly
certain now that the letter she had received was not from Old Nancy.
But why had the spies wished to prevent her from helping Miss Lydia?
She would find out. If she had not felt sure that this was indeed Miss
Lydia, she would have obeyed the letter and gone straight on to the
Brown Hills.
“I will lead you home, Miss Lydia,” she said, “if you will trust me.
Which is the nearest way?”
“Where are we now?” asked Miss Lydia.
“This is Lake Desolate,” Molly informed her.
“There are several lakes near here,” said Miss Lydia. “But I thought we
were somewhere near Lake Desolate, because of the birds.”
So she told Molly to look for a big hill shaped like a head, which was
somewhere on the west side of the lake. When Molly saw it, towering up
behind the other hills, she took Miss Lydia by the hand and led her
away from Lake Desolate.
They passed out of the ring of hills around Lake Desolate, and mounted
a hilly path that led toward the Giant’s Head. The country was very
beautiful on this side of the Lake, but Molly had no eyes for the
beauty of the scene at present. She was trying to puzzle out the
meaning of her letter, and the meaning of Miss Lydia’s story. Had the
Pumpkin any special purpose in making Miss Lydia blind—or was it just
one of his wicked whims? And why had his spies led Miss Lydia to this
Lake, and then tried to prevent Molly from helping her? Surely, if the
spies had wished to prevent Molly from helping the blind lady it would
have been an easy matter for them to keep Miss Lydia out of the way
... to have led her to another lake. On the other hand, if they did
want her to help Miss Lydia, why had they sent that letter; the chances
were that Molly would obey the instructions in the letter. Yes, she
certainly might have obeyed them—if she hadn’t seen Miss Lydia’s photo
in Mrs Jennet’s album. It was all very puzzling to Molly.
It was rather slow work leading Miss Lydia, as she walked hesitatingly
over the rough, uneven ground, but after a time—a long, long time, it
seemed to Molly—they reached the Giant’s Head, and started to work
their way up and round the side of the hill. Molly sighed as she looked
back and thought of all the ground she would have to go over again and
search—right from here to the Brown Hills in the distance. But she
must see Miss Lydia safely home first, and do anything she could to
help her. She found herself wondering how all the other searchers were
getting on and whether any of them had finished searching their part
of the country yet—or whether any of them were, unknowingly, nearing
success.
Rounding the hill, they came in sight of Miss Lydia’s cottage. A
pretty, creeper-clad cottage, perched on the hillside, it peeped out
of its bushy garden down at the road far below. Behind the cottage the
Giant’s Head rose up against the sky. It was a lovely, lonely spot.
Molly led Miss Lydia to the gate. “This is right, isn’t it?” she asked.
Miss Lydia felt the top of the gate. “Yes, this is home,” she said.
“Thank you ... my dear. I don’t know how to thank you. You’ll come in
with me, won’t you? Oh, don’t leave me till I’m indoors.”
“I won’t leave you till you’re indoors,” said Molly, genuinely sorry
for Miss Lydia in her helpless plight.
She helped Miss Lydia to open her front door, and the two entered the
cottage together.
What would Molly’s feelings have been had she looked out into the
garden a moment later, and seen the crouching figure that rose, and
emerged from behind a clump of bushes as soon as the door was shut? It
was an old woman with little darting eyes and a red scarf wound round
her head. Creeping along, the old woman pushed her way through a broken
fence at the end of the garden, and, darting behind a group of trees
close by, began to signal wildly to some one at the bottom of the hill.