THE HIGH MOUNTAINS.
Helen and Polly slept late on the following morning. They were both
awakened simultaneously by Nurse, who, holding baby in her arms, came
briskly into the room. Nurse was immediately followed by Alice, bearing
a tray with an appetizing breakfast for both the little girls.
"The Doctor says you are neither of you to get up until you have had a
good meal," said Nurse. "And, Miss Polly, he'd like to have a word with
you, darling, in his study about eleven o'clock. Eh, dear, but it's
blessed and comforting to have the dear man home again; the house feels
like itself, and we may breathe now."
"And it's blessed and comforting to have one we wot of away again,"
retorted Alice. "The young ladies will be pleased, won't they, Nurse?"
"To be sure they will. You needn't look so startled, loveys, either of
you. It's only your aunt and the dog what is well quit of the house.
They're on their road to Bath now, and long may they stay there."
At this news Helen looked a little puzzled, and not very joyful, but
Polly instantly sat up in bed and spoke in very bright tones.
"What a darling father is! I'm as hungry as possible. Give me my
breakfast, please, Alice; and oh, Nurse, mightn't baby sit between us
for a little in bed?"
"You must support her back well with pillows," said Nurse. "And see as
you don't spill any coffee on her white dress. Eh! then, isn't she the
sweetest and prettiest lamb in all the world?"
The baby, whose little white face had not a tinge of color, and whose
very large velvety brown eyes always wore a gentle, heavenly calm about
them, smiled in a slow way. When she smiled she showed dimples, but she
was a wonderfully grave baby, as though she knew something of the great
loss which had accompanied her birth.
"She is lovely," said Polly. "It makes me feel good even to look at
her."
"Then be good, for her sake, darling," said Nurse, suddenly stooping and
kissing the bright, vivacious girl, and then bestowing another and
tenderer kiss on the motherless baby. "She's for all the world like
Peace itself," said Nurse. "There ain't no sort of naughtiness or
crossness in her."
"Oh, she makes me feel good!" said Polly, hugging the little creature
fondly to her side.
Two hours later Polly stood with her father's arm round her neck: a
slanting ray of sunlight was falling across the old faded carpet in the
study, and mother's eyes smiled out of their picture at Polly from the
wall.
"You have been punished enough," said the Doctor. "I have sent for you
now just to say a word or two. You are a very young climber, Polly, but
if this kind of thing is often repeated, you will never make any way."
"I don't understand you, father."
The Doctor patted Polly's curly head.
"Child," he said, "we have all of us to go up mountains, and if you
choose a higher one, with peaks nearer to the sky than others, you have
all the more need for the necessary helps for ascent."
"Father is always delightful when he is allegorical," Polly had once
said.
Now she threw back her head, looked full into his dearly-loved face,
clasped his hands tightly in both her own, and said with tears filling
her eyes, "I am glad you are going to teach me through a kind of story,
and I think I know what you mean by my trying to climb the highest
mountain. I always did long to do whatever I did a little better than
any one else."
"Exactly so, Polly; go on wishing that. Still try to climb the highest
mountain, only take with you humility instead of self-confidence, and
then, child, you will succeed, for you will be very glad to avail
yourself of the necessary helps."
"The helps? What are they, father? I partly know what you mean, but I am
not sure that I quite know."
"Oh, yes, you quite know. You have known ever since you knelt at your
mother's knee, and whispered your prayers all the better to God because
she was listening too. But I will explain myself by the commonest of
illustrations. A shepherd wanted to rescue one of his flock from a most
perilous situation. The straying sheep had come to a ledge of rock, from
where it could not move either backwards or forwards. It had climbed up
thousands of feet. How was the shepherd to get it? There was one way.
His friends went by another road to the top of the mountain. From there
they threw down ropes, which he bound firmly round him, and then they
drew him slowly up. He reached the ledge, he rescued the sheep, and it
was saved. He could have done nothing without the ropes. So you, too,
Polly, can do nothing worthy; you can never climb your high mountain
without the aid of that prayer which links you to your Father in heaven.
Do you understand?"
"Yes, I understand," said Polly; "I see. I won't housekeep any more for
the present, father."
"You had better not, dear; you have plenty of talent for this, as well
as for anything else you like to undertake, but you lack experience now,
and discretion. It was just all this, and that self-confidence which I
alluded to just now, which got my little girl into all this trouble, and
caused Aunt Maria to think very badly of her. Aunt Maria has gone, so we
will say nothing about her just at present. I may be a foolish old
father, Polly, but I own I have a great desire to keep my children to
myself just now. So I shall give Sleepy Hollow another chance of doing
without a grown-up housekeeper. Your governesses and masters shall come
to teach you as arranged, but Helen must be housekeeper, with Mrs.
Power, who is a very managing person, to help her. Helen, too, must have
a certain amount of authority over you all, with the power to appeal to
me in any emergency. This you must submit to, Polly, and I shall expect
you to do so with a good grace."
"Yes, father."
"I have acceded to your wishes in the matter of bringing the Australian
children here for at least six months. So you see you will have a good
deal on your hands; and as I have done so at the express wish of Helen
and yourself, I shall expect you both to take a good deal of
responsibility, and to be in every sense of the word, extra good."
Polly's eyes danced with pleasure. Then she looked up into her father's
face, and something she saw there caused her to clasp her arms round his
neck, and whisper eagerly and impulsively:
"Father, dear, what Helen told me is _not_ true--is it?"
"You mean about my eyes, Polly? So Helen knows, and has spoken about it,
poor girl?"
"Yes, yes, but it isn't true, it can't be?"
"Don't tremble, Polly. I am quite willing to tell you how things really
are. I don't wish it to be spoken of, but it is a relief to trust some
one. I saw Sir James Dawson when in town. He is the first oculist in
England. He told me that my sight was in a precarious state, and that if
matters turned out unfavorably it is possible, nay probable, that I may
become quite blind. On the other hand, he gives me a prescription which
he thinks and hopes will avert the danger."
"What is it? Oh! father, you will surely try it?"
"If you and the others will help me."
"But what is it?"
Dr. Maybright stroked back Polly's curls.
"Very little anxiety," he said. "As much rest as possible, worries
forbidden, home peace and rest largely insisted upon. Now run away, my
dear. I hear the tramp of my poor people. This is their morning, you
remember."
Polly kissed her father, and quietly left the room.
"See if I'm not good after that," she murmured. "Wild horses shouldn't
drag me into naughtiness after what father has just said."
PART II.
CHAPTER I.
A COUPLE OF BARBARIANS.
All the young Maybrights, with the exception of the baby, were collected
in the morning-room. It was the middle of October. The summer heat had
long departed, the trees were shedding their leaves fast, the sky had an
appearance of coming wind and showers; the great stretch of moorland
which could be seen best in winter when the oaks and elms were bare, was
distinctly visible. The moor had broad shadows on it, also tracts of
intense light; the bracken was changing from green to brown and yellow
color--brilliant color was everywhere. At this time of year the moors
in many ways looked their best.
The Maybright children, however, were not thinking of the landscape, or
the fast approach of winter, they were busily engaged chattering and
consulting together. It was four o'clock in the afternoon, and they knew
that the time left for them to prepare was short, consequently their
busy fingers worked as well as their tongues. Helen was helping the
twins and the little boys to make up a wreath of enormous dimensions,
and Polly, as usual, was flitting about the room, followed by her
satellite Firefly. As usual, too, Polly was first to remark and quickest
to censure. She looked very much like the old Polly; no outward change
was in the least visible, although now she yielded a kind of obedience
to the most gentle and unexacting of sisters, and although she still
vowed daily to herself, that she, Polly, would certainly climb the
highest mountain, and for father's sake would be the best of all his
children.
"How slow you are, Nell," she now exclaimed, impatiently; "and look what
a crooked 'E' you have made to the end of 'WELCOME.' Oh, don't be so
slow, boys! Paul and Virginia will be here before we are half ready."
"They can't come before six o'clock," said Helen. "We have two hours yet
left to work in. Do, dear, pretty Polly, find something else to take up
your time, and let the twins and the boys help me to finish this
wreath."
"Oh, if you don't want me," said Polly, in a slightly offended voice.
"Come along, Fly, we'll go up and see if Virginia's room is ready, and
then we'll pay a visit to our baby. You and I won't stay where we are
not wanted. Come along."
Fly trotted off by her elder sister's side, a great light of contentment
filling her big eyes. The two scampered upstairs, saw that a cozy nest
was all ready for the Australian girl, while a smaller room at the other
side of the passage was in equal readiness for the boy.
"Oh, what darling flowers!" said Firefly, running up to the dressing
table in the principal bedroom, and sniffing at the contents of a dainty
blue jar. "Why, Polly, these buds must be from your own pet tea-rose."
"Yes," said Polly, in a careless voice, "they are; I picked them for
Virginia this morning. I'd do anything for Virginia. I'm greatly excited
about her coming."
"You never saw her," said Firefly, in an aggrieved voice. "You wouldn't
give me your tea-roses. I don't think it's nice of you to be fonder of
her than you are of me. And Nursie says her name isn't Virginia."
"Never mind, she's Virginia to me, and the boy is Paul. Why, Fly, what a
jealous little piece you are. Come here, and sit on my lap. Of course
I'm fond of you, Fly, but I'm not excited about you. I know just the
kind of nose you have, and the kind of mouth, and the kind of big,
scarecrow eyes, but you see I don't know anything at all about Virginia,
so I'm making up stories about her, and pictures, all day long. I expect
she's something of a barbarian, both she and her brother, and isn't it
delicious to think of having two real live barbarians in the house?"
"Yes," said Firefly, in a dubious voice. "I suppose if they are real
barbarians, they won't know a bit how to behave, and we'll have to teach
them. I'll rather like that."
"Oh, you'll have to be awfully good, Fly, for they'll copy you in every
way; no sulking or sitting crooked, or having untidy hair, or you'll
have a couple of barbarians just doing the very same thing. Now, jump
off my lap, I want to go to Nurse, and you may come with me as a great
treat. I'm going to undress baby. I do it every night; and you may see
how I manage. Nurse says I'm very clever about the way I manage babies."
"Oh, you're clever about everything," said Fly, with a prolonged,
deep-drawn breath. "Well, Polly, I do hope one thing."
"Yes?"
"I do hope that the barbarians will be very, very ugly, for after you've
seen them you won't be curious any more, and after you know them there
won't be any stories to make up, and then you won't love them better
than me."
"What a silly you are, Fly," responded Polly.
But she gave her little sister's hand an affectionate squeeze, which
satisfied the hungry and exacting heart of its small owner for the
present.
Meanwhile the enormous wreath progressed well, and presently took upon
important position over the house doorway. As the daylight was getting
dim, and as it would, in the estimation of the children, be the
cruellest thing possible if the full glories of the wreath were not
visible to the eyes of the strangers when they approached Sleepy Hollow,
lamps were cunningly placed in positions where their full light could
fall on the large "Welcome," which was almost the unaided work of the
twins and their small brothers.
But now six o'clock was drawing near, and Polly and Firefly joined the
rest of the children in the hall. The whole house was in perfect order;
an excellent supper would be ready at any moment, and there was little
doubt that when the strangers did appear they would receive a most
hearty welcome.
"Wheels at last!" said Bunny, turning a somersault in the air.
"Hurrah! Three cheers for the barbarians!" sang out Firefly.
"I do hope Virginia will be beautiful," whispered Polly, under her
breath.
Helen went and stood on the doorsteps. Polly suddenly raised a colored
lamp, and waved it above her head.
"Welcome" smiled down from the enormous wreath, and shone on the
features of each Maybright as the Doctor opened the door of the
carriage, and helped a tall, slender girl, and a little boy in a black
velvet suit, to get out.
"Our travelers are very hungry, Polly," he said, "and--and--very
tired. Yes, I see you have prepared things nicely for them. But first of
all they must have supper, and after that I shall prescribe bed.
Welcome, my dear children, to Sleepy Hollow! May it be a happy home to
you both."
"Thank you," said the girl.
She had a pale face, a quantity of long light hair, and dreamy, sleepy
eyes; the boy, on the contrary, had an alert and watchful expression; he
clung to his sister, and looked in her face when she spoke.
"Do tell us what you are called," said Polly. "We are all just dying to
know. Oh! I trust, I do trust that you are really Paul and Virginia. How
perfectly lovely it would be if those were your real names."
The tall girl looked full into Polly's eyes, a strange, sweet, wistful
light filled her own, her words came out musically.
"I am Flower," she said, "and this is David. I am thirteen years old,
and David is eight. Father sent us away because after mother died there
was no one to take care of us."
A sigh of intense interest and sympathy fell from the lips of all the
young Maybrights.
"Come upstairs, Flower; we know quite well how to be sorry for you,"
said Helen.
She took the strange girl's hand, and led her up the broad staircase.
"I'll stay below," said David. "I'm not the least tired, and my hands
don't want washing. Who's the jolliest here? Couldn't we have a game of
ball? I haven't played ball since I left Ballarat. Flower wouldn't let
me. She said I might when I came here. She spoke about coming here all
the time, and she always wanted to see your mother. She cried the whole
of last night because your mother was dead. Now has nobody got a ball,
and won't the jolliest begin?"
"I'll play with you, David," said Polly. "Now catch; there! once, twice,
thrice. Aren't you starving? I want my tea, if you don't."
"Flower said I wasn't to ask for anything to eat now that your mother is
dead," responded David. "She said it wasn't likely we'd stay, but that
while we did I was to be on my good behavior. I hate being on my good
behavior; but Flower's an awful mistress. Yes, of course, I'm starving."
"Well, come in to tea, then," said Polly, laughing. "Perhaps you will
stay, and anyhow we are glad to have you for a little. Children, please
don't stare so hard."
"I don't mind," said David. "They may stare if it pleases them; I rather
like it."
"Like being stared at!" repeated Firefly, whose own sensitive little
nature resented the most transient glance.
"Yes," responded David, calmly; "it shows that I'm admired; and I know
that I'm a very handsome boy."
So he was, with dark eyes like a gipsy, and a splendid upright figure
and bearing. Far from being the barbarian of Polly's imagination, he had
some of the airs and graces of a born aristocrat. His calm remarks and
utter coolness astonished the little Maybrights, who rather shrank away
from him, and left him altogether to Polly's patronage.
At this moment Helen and the young Australian girl came down together.
David instantly trotted up to his sister.
"She thinks that perhaps we'll stay, Flower," pointing with his finger
at Polly, "and in that case I needn't keep up my company manners, need
I?"
"But you must behave well, David," responded Flower, "or the English
nation will fancy we are not civilized."
She smiled in a lovely languid way at her brother, and looked round with
calm indifference at the boys and girls who pressed close to her.
"Come and have tea," said Helen.
She placed Flower at her right hand. The Doctor took the head of the
table, and the meal progressed more or less in silence. Flower was too
lazy or too delicate to eat much. David spent all his time in trying to
make Firefly laugh, and in avoiding the Doctor's penetrating glance. The
Maybrights were too astonished at the appearance of their guests to feel
thoroughly at ease. Polly had a sensation of things being somehow rather
flat, and the Doctor wondered much in his inward soul how this new
experiment would work.
CHAPTER II.
A YOUNG QUEEN.
It did not work well as far as Polly was concerned. Whatever she was at
home, whatever her faults and failings, whatever her wild vagaries, or
unreasonable moods, she somehow or other always managed to be first.
First in play, first in naughtiness, first at her lessons, the best
musician, the best artist, the best housekeeper, the best originator of
sports and frolics on all occasions, was Polly Maybright. From this
position, however, she was suddenly dethroned. It was quite impossible
for Polly to be first when Flower was in the room.
Flower Dalrymple had the ways and manners of a young queen. She was
imperious, often ungracious, seldom obliging, but she had a knack of
getting people to think first of her, of saying the sort of things which
drew attention, and of putting every other little girl with whom she
came into contact completely in the shade.
In reality, Polly was a prettier girl than Flower. Her eyes were
brighter, her features more regular. But just as much in reality Polly
could not hold a candle to Flower, for she had a sort of a languorous,
slumberous, grace, which exactly suited her name; there was a kind of
etherealness about her, an absolutely out-of-the-common look, which made
people glance at her again and again, each time to discover how very
lovely she was.
Flower was a perfect contrast to David, being as fair as he was dark.
Her face had a delicate, creamy shade, her eyes were large and light
blue, the lashes and eyebrows being only a shade or two darker than her
long, straight rather dull-looking, yellow hair. She always wore her
hair straight down her back; she was very willowy and pliant in figure,
and had something of the grace and coloring of a daffodil.
Flower had not been a week in the Maybright family before she contrived
that all the arrangements in the house should be more or less altered to
suit her convenience. She made no apparent complaint, and never put her
wishes into words, still she contrived to have things done to please
her. For instance, long before that week was out, Polly found herself
deprived of the seat she had always occupied at meals by her father's
side. Flower liked to sit near the Doctor, therefore she did so; she
liked to slip her hand into his between the courses, and to look into
his face with her wide-open, pathetic, sweet eyes. Flower could not
touch coffee at breakfast, therefore by common consent the whole family
adopted tea. In the morning-room Flower established herself in mother's
deep arm-chair, hitherto consecrated by all rights and usages to Helen.
As to Polly, she was simply dethroned from her pedestal, her wittiest
remarks fell flat, her raciest stories were received with languid
interest. What were they compared to the thrilling adventures which the
young Australian could tell when she pleased! Not, indeed, that Flower
often pleased, she was not given to many words, her nature was
thoroughly indolent and selfish, and only for one person would she ever
really rouse and exert herself. This person was David; he worshipped
her, and she loved him as deeply as it was in her nature to love any
one. To all appearance, however, it mattered very little who, or how
Flower loved. On all hands, every one fell in love with her. Even Polly
resigned her favorite seat for her, even Helen looked without pain at
mother's beloved chair when Flower's lissome figure filled it. The
younger children were forever offering flowers and fruit at her shrine.
Nurse declared her a bonny, winsome thing, and greatest honor of all,
allowed her to play with little Pearl, the baby, for a few minutes, when
the inclination seized her. Before she was a week in the house, not a
servant in the place but would have done anything for her, and even the
Doctor so far succumbed to her charms as to pronounce her a gracious and
lovable creature.
"Although I can't make her out," he often said to himself, "I have an
odd instinct which tells me that there is the sleeping lioness or the
wild-cat hidden somewhere beneath all that languid, gracious
carelessness. Poor little girl! she has managed to captivate us all, but
I should not be surprised if she turned out more difficult and
troublesome to manage than the whole of my seven daughters put
together."
As Flower and David had been sent from Australia especially to be under
the care and guidance of Mrs. Maybright, the Doctor felt more and more
uncertain as to the expediency of keeping the children.
"It is difficult enough to manage a girl like Polly," he said to
himself; "but when another girl comes to the house who is equally
audacious and untamed--for my Polly is an untamed creature when all's
said and done--how is a poor half-blind old doctor like myself to keep
these two turbulent spirits in order? I am dreadfully afraid the
experiment won't work; and yet--and yet £400 a year is sadly needed to
add to the family purse just now."
The Doctor was pacing up and down his library while he meditated. The
carpet in this part of the room was quite worn from the many times he
walked up and down it. Like many another man, when he was perplexed or
anxious he could not keep still. There came a light tap at the library
door.
"Come in!" said the Doctor; and to his surprise Flower, looking more
like a tall yellow daffodil than ever, in a soft dress of creamy Indian
silk, opened the door and took a step or two into the room.
She looked half-shy, half-bold--a word would have sent her flying, or a
word drawn her close to the kind Doctor's side.
"Come here, my little girl," he said, "and tell me what you want."
Flower would have hated any one else to speak of her as a little girl,
but she pushed back her hair now, and looked with less hesitation and
more longing at the Doctor.
"I thought you'd be here--I ventured to come," she said.
"Yes, yes; there's no venturing in the matter. Take my arm, and walk up
and down with me."
"May I, really?"
"Of course you may, puss. Now I'll warrant anything you have walked many
a carpet bare with your own father. See! this is almost in holes; those
are Polly's steps, these are mine."
"Oh--yes--well, father isn't that sort of man. I'll take your arm if I
may, Doctor. Thank you. I didn't think--I don't exactly know how to say
what I want to say."
"Take time, my dear child; and it is no matter how you put the words."
"When I heard that there was no mother here, I did not want to stay
long. That was before I knew you. Now--I came to say it--I do want to
stay, and so does David."
"But you don't really know me at all, Flower."
"Perhaps not really; but still enough to want to stay. May I stay?"
Flower's charming face looked up inquiringly.
"May I stay?" she repeated, earnestly. "I do wish it!--very much
indeed."
Dr. Maybright was silent for a moment.
"I was thinking about this very point when you knocked at the door," he
said, presently. "I was wondering if you two children could stay. I want
to keep you, and yet I own I am rather fearful of the result. You see,
there are so many motherless girls and boys in this house."
"But we are motherless, too; you should be sorry for us; you should wish
to keep us."
"I am very sorry for you. I have grown to a certain extent already to
love you. You interest me much; still, I must be just to you and to my
own children. You are not a common, everyday sort of girl, Flower. I
don't wish to flatter you, and I am not going to say whether you are
nice or the reverse. But there is no harm in my telling you that you are
out of the common. It is probable that you may be extremely difficult to
manage, and it is possible that your disposition may--may clash with
those of some of the members of my own household. I don't say that this
will be the case, mind, only it is possible. In that case, what would
you expect me to do?"
"To keep me," said Flower, boldly, "and, if necessary, send away the
member of the household, for I am a motherless girl, and I have come
from a long way off to be with you."
"I don't quite think I can do that, Flower. There are many good mothers
in England who would train you and love you, and there are many homes
where you might do better than here. My own children are placed here by
God himself, and I cannot turn them out. Still--what is the matter, my
dear child?"
"I think you are unjust; I thought you would be so glad when I said I
wanted to stay."
"So I am glad; and for the present you are here. How long you remain
depends on yourself. I have no intention of sending you away at present.
I earnestly wish to keep you."
Another tap came to the study door.
"If you please, sir," said Alice, "blind Mrs. Jones is in the kitchen,
and wants to know most particular if she can see you."
"How ridiculous!" said Flower, laughing.
"Show Mrs. Jones in here, Alice," said the Doctor.
His own face had grown a shade or two paler.
"Blind people often speak in that way, Flower," he said, with a certain
intonation in his voice which made her regard him earnestly.
The memory of a rumor which had reached her ears with regard to the
Doctor's own sight flashed before her. She stooped suddenly, and with an
impulsive, passionate gesture kissed his hand.
Outside the room David was waiting.
"Well, Flower, well?" he asked, with intense eagerness.
"I spoke to him," said Flower. "We are here on sufferance, that's all.
He is the dearest man in all the world, but he is actually afraid of
me."
"You are rather fierce at times, you know, Flower. Did you tell him
about--about----"
"About what, silly boy?"
"About the passions. You know, Flower, we agreed that he had better
know."
A queer steely light came into Flower's blue eyes.
"I didn't speak of them," she said. "If I said anything of that sort I'd
soon be packed away. I expect he's in an awful fright about that
precious Polly of his."
"But Polly is nice," interposed David.
"Oh, yes, just because she has a rather good-looking face you go over to
her side. I'm not at all sure that I like her. Anyhow, I'm not going to
play second fiddle to her. There now, Dave, go and play. We're here on
sufferance, so be on your good behavior. As to me, you need not be the
least uneasy. I wish to remain at Sleepy Hollow, so, of course, the
passions won't come. Go and play, Dave."
Firefly called across the lawn. David bounded out of the open window,
and Flower went slowly up to her own room.
There came a lovely day toward the end of October; St. Martin's summer
was abroad, and the children, with the Doctor's permission, had arranged
to take a long expedition across one of the southern moors in search of
late blackberries. They took their dinner with them, and George, the
under-gardener, accompanied the little party for protection. Nurse
elected, as usual, to stay at home with baby, for nothing would induce
her to allow this treasured little mortal out of her own keeping; but
the Doctor promised, if possible, to join the children at Troublous
Times Castle at two o'clock for dinner. This old ruin was at the extreme
corner of one of the great commons, and was a very favorite resort for
picnics, as it still contained the remains of a fine old banqueting-hall,
where in stormy or uncertain weather a certain amount of shelter could
be secured.
The children started off early, in capital spirits. A light wind was
blowing; the sky was almost cloudless. The tints of late autumn were
still abroad in great glory, and the young faces looked fresh, careless,
and happy.
Just at the last moment, as they were leaving the house, an idea darted
through Polly's brain.
"Let's have Maggie," she said. "I'll go round by the village and fetch
her. She would enjoy coming with us so much, and it would take off her
terror of the moor. Do you know, Helen, she is such a silly thing that
she has been quite in a state of alarm ever since the day we went to the
hermit's hut. I won't be a moment running to fetch Mag; do let's have
her. Firefly, you can come with me."
Maggie, who now resided with her mother, not having yet found another
situation--for Mrs. Power had absolutely declined to have her back in
the kitchen--was a favorite with all the children. They were pleased
with Polly's proposal, and a chorus of "Yes, by all means, let's have
Maggie!" rose in the air.
Flower was standing a little apart; she wore a dark green close-fitting
cloth dress; on her graceful golden head was a small green velvet cap.
She was picking a late rose to pieces, and waiting for the others with a
look of languid indifference on her face. Now she roused herself, and
asked in a slightly weary voice:
"Who is Maggie?"
"Maggie?" responded Helen, "she was our kitchen-maid; we are all very
fond of her--Polly especially."
"Fond of a kitchen-maid? I don't suppose you mean that, Helen," said
Flower. "A kitchen-maid's only a servant."
"I certainly mean it," said Helen, with a little warmth. "I am more or
less fond of all our servants, and Maggie used to be a special
favorite."
"How extraordinary!" said Flower. "The English nation have very queer
and plebeian ways about them; it's very plebeian to take the least
notice of servants, except to order them to obey you."
"On the contrary," retorted Polly; "it's the sign of a true lady or
gentleman to be perfectly courteous to their dependents, and if they
deserve love, to give it to them. I'm fond of Maggie; she's a good
little girl, and she shall come to our picnic. Come along, Firefly."
"I certainly will have nothing to say to Polly while she associates with
a servant," said Flower, slowly, and with great apparent calmness. "I
don't suppose we need all wait for her here. She can follow with the
servant when she gets her. I suppose Polly's whims are not to upset the
whole party."
"Polly will very likely catch us up at the cross-roads," said Helen, in
a pleasant voice. "Come, Flower, you won't really be troubled with poor
little Maggie; she will spend her day probably with George, and will
help him to wash up our dinner-things after we have eaten. Come, don't
be vexed, Flower."
"_I_ vexed!" said Flower. "You are quite mistaken. I don't intend to
have anything to say to Polly while she chooses a kitchen-maid for her
friend, but I dare say the rest of you can entertain me. Now, Mabel and
Dolly, shall I tell you what we did that dark night when David and I
stole out through the pantry window?"
"Oh, yes, yes!" exclaimed the twins. The others all clustered round
eagerly.
Flower had a very distinct voice, and when she roused herself she could
really be eloquent. A daring little adventure which she and her brother
had experienced lost nothing in the telling, and when Polly, Firefly,
and Maggie, joined the group, they found themselves taken very little
notice of, for all the other children, even Helen, were hanging on
Flower's words.
"Oh, I say, that isn't fair!" exclaimed Polly, whose spirits were
excellent. "You're telling a story, Flower, and Firefly and I have
missed it. Maggie loves stories, too; don't you, Mag? Do begin again,
please, Flower, please do!"
Flower did not even pretend to hear Polly's words--she walked straight
on, gesticulating a little now and then, now and then raising her hand
in a slightly dramatic manner. Her clear voice floated back to Polly as
she walked forward, the center of an eager, worshipping, entranced
audience.
Polly's own temper was rather hasty, she felt her face flushing, angry
words were bubbling to her lips, and she would have flown after the
little party who were so utterly ignoring her, if David had not suddenly
slipped back and put his hand on her arm.
"I know the story," he said; "so I needn't stay to listen. She's adding
to it awfully. We didn't use any ropes, the window is only three feet
from the ground, and the awful howling and barking of the mastiff was
made by the shabbiest little cur. Flower is lovely, but she does dress
up her stories. I love Flower, but I'll walk with you now, if you'll let
me, Polly."
"You're very kind, David," said Polly. "But I don't know that I want any
one to walk with me, except Maggie. I think Flower was very rude just
now. Oh, you can stay if you like, David--I don't mind, one way or
another. Isn't this south moor lovely, Maggie? Aren't you glad I asked
you to come with us?"
"Well, yes, Miss, I be. It was good-natured of you, Miss Polly, only if
there's stories a-going, I'd like to be in at them. I does love
narrations of outlandish places, Miss. Oh, my word, and is that the
little foreign gentleman? It is a disappointment as I can't 'ear what
the young lady's a-telling of."
"Well, Maggie, you needn't be discontented. _I_ am not hearing this
wonderful story, either. David, what are you nudging me for?"
"Send her to walk with George," whispered David. "I want to say
something to you so badly, Polly."
Polly frowned. She did not feel particularly inclined to oblige any one
just now, but David had a pleading way of his own; he squeezed her arm
affectionately, and looked into her face with a world of beseeching in
his big black eyes. After all it was no very difficult matter to get at
Polly's warm heart. She looked over her shoulder.
"George, will you give Maggie a seat beside you," she said. "No, none of
the rest of us want to drive. Come on, David. Now, David, what is it?"
"It's about Flower," said David. "She--she--you don't none of you know
Flower yet."
"Oh, I am not sure of that," replied Polly, speaking on purpose in a
very careless tone. "I suppose she's much like other girls. She's rather
pretty, of course, and has nice ways with her. I made stories about you
both, but you're not a bit like anything I thought of. In some ways
you're nicer, in some not so nice. Why, what is the matter, David? What
are you staring at me so hard for?"
"Because you're all wrong," responded David. "You don't know Flower.
She's not like other girls; not a bit. There were girls at Ballarat, and
she wasn't like them. But no one wondered at that, for they were rough,
and not like real ladies. And there were girls on board the big ship we
came over in, and they weren't rough, but Flower wasn't a bit like them
either. And she's not like any of you, Polly, although I'm sure you are
nice, and Helen is sweet, and Fly is a little brick. Flower is not like
any other girl I have ever seen."
"She must be an oddity, then," said Polly. "I hate oddities. Do let's
walk a little faster, David."
"You are wrong again," persisted David, quickening his steps. "An oddity
is some one to laugh at, but no one has ever dreamed of laughing at
Flower. She is just herself, like no one else in the world. No, you
don't any of you know her yet. I suppose you are every one of you
thinking that she's the very nicest and cleverest and perfectest girl
you ever met?"
"I'm sure we are not," said Polly. "I think, for my part, there has been
a great deal too much fuss made about her. I'm getting tired of her
airs, and I think she was very rude just now."
"Oh, don't, Polly, you frighten me. I want to tell you something so
badly. Will you treat it as a great, enormous secret? will you never
reveal it, Polly?"
"What a queer boy you are," said Polly. "No, I won't tell. What's the
mystery?"
"It's this. Flower is sometimes--sometimes--oh, it's dreadful to have
to tell!--Flower is sometimes not nice."
Polly's eyes danced.
"You're a darling, David!" she said. "Of course, that sister of yours is
not perfect. I'd hate her if she was."
"But it isn't that," said David. "It's so difficult to tell. When Flower
isn't nice, it's not a small thing, it's--oh, she's awful! Polly, I
don't want any of you ever to see Flower in a passion; you'd be
frightened, oh, you would indeed. We were all dreadfully unhappy at
Ballarat when Flower was in a passion, and lately we tried not to get
her into one. That's what I want you to do, Polly; I want you to try; I
want you to see that she is not vexed."
"I like that," said Polly. "Am I to be on my 'P's and Q's' for this Miss
Flower of yours? Now, David, what do you mean by a great passion? I'm
rather hot myself. Come, you saw me very cross about the lemonade
yesterday; is Flower worse than that? What fun it must be to see her!"
"Don't!" said David, turning pale. "You wouldn't speak in that way,
Polly, if you knew. What you did yesterday like Flower? Why, I didn't
notice you at all. Flower's passions are--are---- But I can't speak
of them, Polly."
"Then why did you tell me?" said Polly. "I can't help her getting into
rages, if she's so silly."
"Oh, yes, you can, and that's why I spoke to you. She's a little vexed
now, about your having brought the--the kitchen-maid here. I know well
she's vexed, because she's extra polite with every one else. That's a
way she has at first. I don't suppose she'll speak to you, Polly; but
oh, Polly, I will love you so much, I'll do anything in all the world
for you, if only you'll send Maggie home!"
"What are you dreaming of?" said Polly. "Because Flower is an ill
tempered, proud, silly girl, am I to send poor little Maggie away? No,
David, if your sister has a bad temper, she must learn to control it.
She is living in England now, and she must put up with our English ways;
we are always kind to our servants."
"Then it can't be helped," said David. "You'll remember that I warned
you--you'll be sorry afterwards! Hullo, Flower--yes, Flower, I'm
coming."
He flew from Polly's side, going boldly over to what the little girl was
now pleased to call the ranks of the enemy. She felt sorry for a moment,
for Firefly had long since deserted her. Then she retraced her steps,
and walked by Maggie's side for the rest of the time.
CHAPTER III.
NOT LIKE OTHERS.
It was still early when the children reached Troublous Times Castle. Dr.
Maybright would not be likely to join them for nearly an hour. They had
walked fast, and Polly, at least, felt both tired and cross. When the
twins ran up to her and assured her with much enthusiasm that they had
never had a more delightful walk, she turned from them with a little
muttered "Pshaw!" Polly's attentions now to Maggie were most marked, and
if this young person were not quite one of the most obtuse in existence,
it is possible she might have felt slightly embarrassed.
"While we're waiting for father," exclaimed Polly, speaking aloud, and
in that aggressive tone which had not been heard from her lips since the
night of the supper in the attic--"while we're waiting for father we'll
get the banqueting-hall ready. Maggie and I will see to this, but any
one who likes to join us can. We don't require any assistance, but if it
gives pleasure to any of the others to see us unpack the baskets, now is
the time for them to say the word."
"But, of course, we're all going to get the dinner ready," exclaimed
Dolly and Katie, in voices of consternation. "What a ridiculous way you
are talking, Polly! This is all our affair; half the fun is getting the
dinner ready. Isn't it, Nell?"
"Yes, of course," said Helen, in her pleasant, bright voice. "We'll all
do as much as we can do to make the banqueting-hall ready for father.
Now, let's get George to take the hampers there at once; and, Flower, I
thought, perhaps, you would help me to touch up the creepers here and
there, they do look so lovely falling over that ruined west window.
Come, Flower, now let's all of us set to work without any more delay."
"Yes, Flower, and you know you have such a way of making things look
sweet," said David, taking his sister's hand and kissing it.
She put her arm carelessly round his neck, stooped down, and pressed her
lips to his brow, then said in that light, arch tone, which she had used
all day, "David is mistaken. I can't make things look sweet, and I'm not
coming to the banqueting-hall at present."
There was a pointed satire in the two last words. Flower's big blue eyes
rested carelessly on Maggie, then they traveled to where Polly stood,
and a fine scorn curled her short, sensitive upper lip. The words she
had used were nothing, but her expressive glance meant a good deal.
Polly refused to see the world of entreaty on David's face--she threw
down her challenge with equal scorn and a good deal of comic dignity.
"It's a very good thing, then, you're not coming to the banqueting-hall,
Flower," she said. "For we don't want people there who have no taste. I
suppose it's because you are an Australian, for in England even the
cottagers know a little about how to make picnics look pretty. Maggie is
a cottager at present, as she's out of a situation, so it's lucky we've
brought her. Now, as every one else wants to come, let them, and don't
let's waste any more time, or when father comes, we really will have
nothing ready for him to eat."
"Very well," said Flower. "Then I shall take a walk by myself. I wish to
be by myself. No, David you are not to come with me, I forbid it."
For a quarter of a second a queer steely light filled her blue eyes.
David shrank from her glance, and followed the rest of the party down a
flight of steps which led also into the old banqueting-hall.
"You've done it now," he whispered to Polly. "You'll be very, very sorry
by-and-by, and you'll remember then that I warned you."
"I really think you're the most tiresome boy," said Polly. "You want to
make mysteries out of nothing. I don't see that Flower is particularly
passionate; she's a little bit sarcastic, and she likes to say nasty,
scathing things, but you don't suppose I mind her! She'll soon come to
her senses when she sees that we are none of us petting her, or bowing
down to her. I expect that you and your father have spoiled that Flower
of yours over in Ballarat."
"You don't know Flower a bit," responded David. "I warned you. You'll
remember that presently. Flower not passionate! Why, she was white with
passion when she went away. Well, you wait and see."
"I wish you'd stop talking," responded Polly, crossly. "We'll never have
things ready if you chatter so, and try to perplex me. There's poor Fly
almost crying over that big hamper. Please, David, go and help her to
get the knives, and forks, and glasses out, and don't break any glasses,
for we're always fined if we break glasses at picnics."
David moved away slowly. He was an active little fellow as a rule, but
now there seemed to be a weight over him. The vivaciousness had left his
handsome dark little face; once he turned round and looked at Polly with
a volume of reproach in his eyes.
She would not meet his eyes, she was bending over her own hamper, and
was laughing and chatting gayly with every one who came within her
reach. The moment Flower's influence was removed Polly became once more
the ringleader of all the fun. Once more she was appealed to, her advice
asked, her directions followed. She could not help admitting to herself
that she liked the change, and for the first time a conscious feeling of
active dislike to Flower took possession of her. What right had this
strange girl to come and take the lead in everything? No, she was
neither very pretty nor very agreeable; she was a conceited,
ill-tempered, proud creature, and it was Polly's duty, of course it was
Polly's duty, to see that she was not humored. Was there anything so
unreasonable and monstrous as her dislike to poor little Maggie? Poor
little harmless Maggie, who had never done her an ill-turn in her life.
Really David had been too absurd when he proposed that Maggie should be
sent home. David was a nice boy enough, but he was not to suppose that
every one was to bow down to his Queen Flower. Ridiculous! let her go
into passions if she liked, she would soon be tamed and brought to her
senses when she had been long enough in England.
Polly worked herself up into quite a genuine little temper of her own,
as she thought, and she now resolved, simply and solely for the purpose
of teasing Flower, that Maggie should dine with them all, and have a
seat of honor near herself. When she had carelessly thought of her
coming to the picnic, she, of course, like all the others, had intended
that Maggie and George should eat their dinner together after the great
meal was over; and even Helen shook her head now when Polly proposed in
her bright audacious way that Maggie should sit near her, in one of the
best positions, where she could see the light flickering through the
ivy, which nearly covered the beautiful west window.
"As you like, of course, Polly," responded Helen. "But I do think it is
putting Maggie a little out of her place. Perhaps father won't like it,
and I'm sure Flower won't."
"I'll ask father myself, when he arrives," answered Polly, choosing to
ignore the latter part of Helen's speech.
The banqueting-hall, which was a perfect ruin at one end, was still
covered over at the other. And it was in this portion, full of
picturesque half-lights and fascinating dark corners, that the children
had laid out their repast. The west window was more than fifty feet
distant. It was nearly closed in with an exquisite tracery of ivy; but
as plenty of light poured into the ruin from the open sky overhead, this
mattered very little, and but added to the general effect. The whole
little party were very busy, and no one worked harder than Polly, and no
one's laugh was more merry. Now and then, it is true, an odd memory and
a queer sensation of failure came over her. Was she really--really
to-day, at least--trying to climb successfully the highest mountain?
She stifled the little voice speaking in her heart, delighted her
brothers and sisters, and even caused a smile to play round David's
grave lips as she made one witty remark after another. Firefly in
particular was in ecstasies with her beloved sister, and when the Doctor
at last appeared on the scene the fun was at its height.
The moment he entered the banqueting-hall Polly went up to him, put on
her archest and most pleading expression, and said in a tone of inquiry:
"It's all so delightful, and such a treat for her. And you don't mind,
do you father?"
"I don't know that I mind anything at this moment, Polly, for I am
hungry, and your viands look tempting of the tempting. Unless you bid me
not to come to the feast, I shall quarrel with no other suggestion."
"Oh! you darlingest of fathers; then you won't be angry if poor Maggie
sits next me; and has her dinner with us? She is a little afraid of the
moor, and I wanted to cure her, so I brought her to-day, and she will be
so happy if she can sit next me at dinner."
"Put her where you please, my dear; we are not sitting on forms or
standing on ceremony at present. And now to dinner, to dinner, children,
for I must be off again in an hour."
No one noticed, not even David, that while the Doctor was speaking a
shadow stole up and remained motionless by the crumbling stairs of the
old banqueting-hall; no one either saw when it glided away. Polly
laughed, and almost shouted; every one, Flower excepted, took their
places as best they could on the uneven floor of the hall; the white
tablecloth was spread neatly in the middle. Every one present was
exceedingly uncomfortable physically, and yet each person expressed him
or herself in tones of rapture, and said never was such food eaten, or
such a delightful dinner served.
For a long time Flower was not even missed; then David's grave face
attracted the Doctor's attention.
"What is the matter, my lad?" he said. "Have you a headache? Don't you
enjoy this _al fresco_ sort of entertainment? And, by the way, I don't
see your sister. Helen, my dear, do you know where Flower is? Did not
she come with you?"
"Of course she did, father; how stupid and careless of me never to have
missed her."
Helen jumped up from the tailor-like position she was occupying on the
floor.
"Flower said she would take a little walk," she continued. "And I must
say I forgot all about her. She ought to have been back ages ago."
"Flower went by herself for a walk on the moor!" echoed the Doctor. "But
that isn't safe; she may lose her way, or get frightened. Why did you
let her go, children?"
No one answered; a little cloud seemed to have fallen on the merry
party. Polly again had a pinprick of uneasiness in her heart, and a
vivid recollection of the highest mountain which she was certainly not
trying to climb.
The Doctor said he would go at once to look for Flower.
CHAPTER IV.
A YOUNG AUSTRALIAN.
David was quite right when he said his sister was not like other girls.
There was a certain element of wildness in her; she had sweet manners, a
gracious bearing, an attractive face; but in some particulars she was
untamed. Never had that terrible strong temper of hers been curbed. More
than one of the servants in the old home at Ballarat had learnt to dread
it. When Flower stormed, her father invariably left home, and David shut
himself up in his own room. Her mother, an affectionate but not
particularly strong-minded woman, alone possessed sufficient courage to
approach the storm-tossed little fury. Mrs. Dalrymple had a certain
power of soothing the little girl, but even she never attempted to teach
the child the smallest lessons of self-control.
This unchecked, unbridled temper grew and strengthened with Flower's
growth. When under its influence she was a transformed being, and David
had good reason to be afraid of her.
In addition to an ungovernable temper, Flower was proud; she possessed
the greatest pride of all, that of absolute ignorance. She believed
firmly in caste; had she lived in olden days in America, she would have
been a very cruel mistress of slaves. Yet with it all Flower had an
affectionate heart; she was generous, loyal, but she was so thoroughly a
spoiled and untrained creature that her good qualities were nearly lost
under the stronger sway of her bad ones.
After her mother's death Flower had fretted so much that she had grown
shadowy and ill. It was then her father conceived the idea of sending
her and David to an English family to train and educate. He could not
manage Flower, he could not educate David. The Maybrights were heard of
through a mutual friend, and Flower was reconciled to the thought of
leaving the land and home of her birth because she was told she was
going to another mother. She dried her eyes at this thought, and was
tolerably cheerful during the voyage over. On reaching England the news
of Mrs. Maybright's death was broken to her. Again Flower stormed and
raged; she gave poor little David a dreadful night, but in the morning
her tears were dried, her smile had returned, and she went down to
Sleepy Hollow with the Doctor in fairly good spirits.
The young Maybrights were all on their best behavior--Flower was on
hers, and until the day of the picnic all went well.
It did not take a great deal to rouse first the obstinate pride of this
young Australian, and then her unbridled passions. Associate with a
servant? No, that she would never, never do. Show Polly that she
approved of her conduct? Not while her own name was Flower Dalrymple.
She let all the other happy children go down to the banqueting-hall
without her, and strode away, miserable at heart, choking with rage and
fury.
The Dalrymples were very wealthy people, and Flower's home in Ballarat
was furnished with every luxury. Notwithstanding this, the little girl
had never been in a truly refined dwelling-house until she took up her
abode in old-fashioned Sleepy Hollow. Flower had taken a great fancy to
Helen, and she already warmly loved Dr. Maybright. She was wandering
over the moor now, a miserable, storm-tossed little personage, when she
saw his old-fashioned gig and white pony "Rowney" approaching. That old
gig and the person who sat in it--for Dr. Maybright drove
himself--began to act on the heart of the child with a curious magnetic
force. Step by step they caused her to turn, until she reached Troublous
Times Castle almost as soon as the Doctor. She did not know why she was
coming back, for she had not the remotest idea of yielding her will to
Polly's. Still she had a kind of instinct that the Doctor would set
things right. By this she meant that he would give her her own way and
banish Maggie from the scene of festivity.
The banqueting-hall at the old castle could be reached by two ways: you
might approach it quite easily over the green sward, or you might enter
a higher part of the castle, and come to it down broken steps.
The Doctor chose one way of approaching the scene of the feast, Flower
another. She was about to descend when she heard voices: Polly was
eagerly asking permission for Maggie to dine with them; the Doctor, in
his easy, genial tones, was giving it to her. That was enough. If Flower
had never known before what absolute hatred was like, she knew it now.
She hated Polly; ungovernable passion mounted to her brain, filled her
eyes, lent wings to her feet; she turned and fled.
Although the month was October, it was still very hot in the middle of
the day on the open moor. Flower, however, was accustomed to great heat
in her native home, and the full rays of the sun did not impede her
flight. She was so tall and slight and willowy that she was a splendid
runner, but the moor was broken and rough, interspersed here and there
with deep bracken, here and there with heather, here and there again
with rank clumps of undergrowth. The young girl, half blinded with rage
and passion, did not see the sharp points of the rocks or the brambles
in her path. Once or twice she fell. After her second fall she was so
much bruised and hurt, that she was absolutely forced to sit still in
the midst of the yellow-and-brown bracken. It was in a bristling,
withered state, but it still stood thick and high, and formed a kind of
screen all round Flower as she sat in it. She took off her cap, and idly
fanned her hot face with it; her yellow head could scarcely be
distinguished from the orange-and-gold tints of the bracken which
surrounded her.
In this way the Doctor, who was now anxiously looking for Flower, missed
her, for he drove slowly by, not a hundred yards from her hiding-place.
As Flower sat and tried to cool herself, she began to reflect. Her
passion was not in the least over; on the contrary, its most dangerous
stage had now begun. As she thought, there grew up stronger and stronger
in her heart a great hatred for Polly. From the first, Flower had not
taken so warmly to Polly as she had done to Helen. The fact was, these
girls were in many ways too much alike. Had it been Polly's fate to be
born and brought up in Ballarat, she might have been Flower over again.
She might have been even worse than Flower, for she was cleverer; on the
other hand, had Flower been trained by Polly's wise and loving mother,
she might have been a better girl than Polly.
As it was, however, these two must inevitably clash. They were like two
queen bees in the same hive; they each wanted the same place. It only
needed a trifle to bring Flower's uneasy, latent feeling against Polly
to perfection. The occasion arose, the match had fired the easily
ignited fuel, and Flower sat now and wondered how she could best revenge
herself on Polly.
After a time, stiff and limping, for she had hurt her ankle, she
recommenced her walk across the moor. She had not the least idea where
her steps were leading her. She was tired, her feet ached, and her great
rage had sufficiently cooled to make her remember distinctly that she
had eaten no dinner; still, she plodded on. From the time she had left
Troublous Times Castle she had not encountered an individual, but now,
as she stepped forward, a man suddenly arose from his lair in the grass
and confronted her. He was a black-eyed, unkempt, uncouth-looking
person, and any other girl would have been very much afraid of him. He
put his arms akimbo, a disagreeable smile crossed his face, and he
instantly placed himself in such a position as completely to bar the
girl's path.
An English girl would have turned pale at such an apparition in so
lonely a place, but Flower had seen bushmen in her day, and did not
perceive anything barbarous or outlandish in the man's appearance.
"I'm glad I've met you," she said, in her clear dulcet voice, "for you
can tell me where I am. I want to get to Sleepy Hollow, Dr. Maybright's
place--am I far away?"
"Two miles, as the crow flies," responded the man.
"But I can't go as the crow flies. What is the best way to walk? Can't
you show me?"
"No-a. I be sleepy. Have you got a coin about you, Miss?"
"Money? No. I left my purse at home. I have not got a watch either, nor
a chain, but I have got a little ring. It is very thin, but it is pure
gold, and I am fond of it. I will give it to you if you will take me the
very nearest way to Sleepy Hollow."
The man grinned again. "You _be_ a girl!" he said, in a tone of
admiration. "Yes, I'll take you; come."
He turned on his heel, shambled on in front, and Flower followed.
In this manner the two walked for some time. Suddenly they mounted a
ridge, and then the man pointed to where the Doctor's house stood, snug
in its own inclosure.
"Thank you," said Flower.
She took a little twist of gold off her smallest finger, dropped it into
the man's dirty, open palm, and began quickly to descend the ridge in
the direction of the Hollow. It was nearly three o'clock when she
entered the cool, wide entrance-hall. The house felt still and restful.
Flower acknowledged to herself that she was both tired and hungry, but
her main idea to revenge herself on Polly was stronger than either
fatigue or hunger. She walked into the dining-room, cut a thick slice
from a home-made loaf of bread, broke off a small piece to eat at once,
and put the rest into her pocket. A dish of apples stood near; she
helped herself to two, stowed them away with the bread in the capacious
pocket of her green cloth dress, and then looked around her. She had got
to Polly's home, but how was she to accomplish her revenge? How strike
Polly through her most vulnerable point?
She walked slowly upstairs, meditating as she went. Her own little
bower-like room stood open; she entered it. Polly's hands had been
mainly instrumental in giving choice touches to this room; Polly's
favorite blue vase stood filled with flowers on the dressing-table, and
a lovely photograph of the Sistine Madonna which belonged to Polly hung
over the mantelpiece. Flower did not look at any of these things. She
unlocked a small drawer in a dainty inlaid cabinet, which she had
brought with her from Ballarat, took out two magnificent diamond rings,
a little watch set with jewels, and a small purse, very dainty in
itself, but which only held a few shillings. She put all these treasures
into a small black velvet bag, fastened the bag round her neck by a
narrow gold chain, and then leaving her room, stood once more in a
contemplative attitude on the landing.
She was ready now for flight herself, for when she had revenged herself
on Polly, she must certainly fly. But how should she accomplish her
revenge? what should she do? She thought hard. She knew she had but
little time, for the Doctor and the children might return at any moment.
In the distance she heard the merry laugh of Polly's little sister,
Pearl. Flower suddenly colored, her eyes brightened, and she said to
herself:
"That is a good idea; I will go and have a talk with Nurse. I can find
out somehow from Nurse what Polly likes best."
She ran at once to the nurseries.
"My dear Miss Flower," exclaimed Nurse. "Why, wherever have you been,
Miss? I thought you was with the others. Well! you do look tired and
fagged."
"I have walked home," said Flower, carelessly. "I didn't care to be out
so long; picnics are nothing to me; I'm accustomed to that sort of thing
on a big scale at Ballarat, you know. I walked home, and then I thought
I'd have a chat with you, if you didn't mind."
"For sure, dear. Sit you down in that easy chair, Miss Flower; and would
you like to hold baby for a bit? Isn't she sweet to-day? I must say I
never saw a more knowing child for her age."
"She is very pretty," said Flower, carelessly. "But I don't think I'll
hold her, Nurse. I'm not accustomed to babies, and I'm afraid she might
break or something. Do you know I never had a baby in my arms in my
life? I don't remember David when he was tiny. No, I never saw anything
so young and soft and tiny as this little Pearl; she _is_ very pretty."
"Eh, dear lamb," said Nurse, squeezing the baby to her heart, "she's the
very sweetest of the sweet. Now you surprise me, Miss Flower, for I'd
have said you'd be took up tremendous with babies, you has them winsome
ways. Why, look at the little dear, she's laughing even now to see you.
She quite takes to you, Miss--the same as she does to Miss Polly."
"She takes to Polly, does she?" said Flower.
"Take to her? I should say so, Miss; and as to Miss Polly, she just
worships baby. Two or three times a day she comes into the nursery, and
many and many a time she coaxes me to let her bathe her. The fact is,
Miss Flower, we was all in a dreadful taking about Miss Polly when her
mamma died. She was quite in a stunned sort of state, and it was baby
here brought her round. Ever since then our little Miss Pearl has been
first of all with Miss Polly."
"Give her to me," said Flower, in a queer, changed voice. "I've altered
my mind--I'd like to hold her. See, is she not friendly? Yes, baby,
kiss me, baby, with your pretty mouth. Does she not coo--isn't she
perfect? You are quite right, Nurse. I do like to hold her, very much
indeed."
"I said she'd take to you, Miss," said Nurse, in a gratified voice.
"So she does, and I take to her. Nurse, I wonder if you'd do something
for me?"
"Of course I will, my dear."
"I am so awfully hungry. Would you go down' to the kitchen and choose a
nice little dinner for me?"
"I'll ring the bell, Miss Dalrymple. Alice shall bring it to you on a
tray here, if you've a mind to eat it in the nursery."
"But I do want you to choose something; do go yourself, and find
something dainty. Do, Nursie, please Nursie. I want to be spoiled a
little bit; no one ever spoils me now that my mamma is dead."
"Bless the child!" said good-natured and unsuspicious Nurse. "Of course
I'll go, if you put it that way, Missy. Well, take care of baby, Miss
Flower. Don't attempt to carry her; hold her steady with your arm firm
round her back. I'll bring you your dinner in ten minutes at latest,
Miss."
CHAPTER V.
FORSAKEN.
The moment Nurse's footsteps died away Flower sprang to her feet,
snatched up a white wool shawl, which lay over the baby's cot, wrapped
it round her, and flew downstairs with the little creature in her arms.
Out through a side door which stood open ran Flower, down by the
shrubbery, over the stile, and in a few moments she was out again on the
wide, wild, lonely moor with Polly's pet pressed close to her beating
heart. Long before Nurse had returned to the nursery Flower had reached
the moor, and when poor, distracted Nurse discovered her loss, Flower
had wriggled herself into the middle of a clump of young oak-trees, and
was fondling and petting little Pearl, who sat upright on her knee. From
her hiding-place Flower could presently hear footsteps and voices, but
none of them came near her, and for the present baby was contented, and
did not cry. After a time the footsteps moved further off, and Flower
peeped from her shelter.
"Now, baby, come on," she said. She wrapped the shawl again firmly round
the little one, and started with a kind of trotting motion over the
outskirts of the moor. She was intensely excited, and her cheeks were
flushed with the first delicious glow of victory. Oh, how sorry Polly
would be now for having attempted to oppose her. Yes, Polly would know
now that Flower Dalrymple was not a person to be trifled with.
She was really a strong girl, though she had a peculiarly fragile look.
The weight of the three months' old baby was not very great, and for a
time she made quite rapid progress. After she had walked about a mile
she stood still to consider and to make her plans. No more ignorant girl
in all England could perhaps be found than this same poor silly,
revengeful Flower; but even she, with all her ideas Australian, and her
knowledge of English life and ways simply null and void, even she knew
that the baby could not live for a long time without food and shelter on
the wide common land which lay around. She did not mean to steal baby
for always, but she thought she would keep her for a month or two, until
Polly was well frightened and repentant, and then she would send her
back by some kind, motherly woman whom she was sure to come across. As
to herself, she had fully made up her mind never again to enter the
doors of Sleepy Hollow, for it would be impossible for her, she felt, to
associate with any people who had sat down to dinner with the
kitchen-maid. Holding the baby firmly in her arms, Flower stood and
hesitated. The warm fleecy white shawl sheltered little Pearl from all
cold, and for the present she slept peacefully.
"I must try and find some town," thought Flower. "I must walk to some
town--the nearest, I suppose--with baby. Then I will sell one of my
rings, and try to get a nice woman to give me a lodging. If she is a
motherly person--and I shall certainly look out for some one that
is--I can give her little Pearl when I get tired of her, and she can
take her back to Sleepy Hollow. But I won't give Pearl up for the
present; for, in the first place she amuses me, and in the next I wish
Polly to be well punished. Now I wonder which is the nearest way to the
town? If I were at Ballarat, I should know quickly enough by the
sign-posts placed at intervals all over the country, but they don't seem
to have anything of the sort here in barbarous England. Now, how shall I
get to the nearest town without meeting any one who would be likely to
tell Dr. Maybright?"
Flower had scarcely expressed herself in this fashion before once again
the rough-looking man crossed her path. She greeted him quite joyfully.
"Oh! you're just the person I want," she exclaimed. "I've got my purse
now, and a little money in it. Would you like to earn a shilling?"
"Sure-_ly_," said the man. "But I'd a sight rather 'arn two," he added.
"I'll give you two. I have not got much money, but I'll certainly give
you two shillings if you'll help me now. I have got a little baby
here--a dear little baby, but she's rather heavy. I am running away
with her to revenge myself on somebody. I don't mind telling you that,
for you look like an outlaw yourself, and you'll sympathize with me. I
want you to carry baby for me, and to take us both to the nearest town.
Do you hear? Will you do it?"
"Sure-_ly_," said the man, favoring Flower with a long, peculiar glance.
"Well, here's baby; you must be very careful of her. I'll give you
_three_ shillings after you have taken her and me to the nearest town;
and if you are really kind, and walk quickly, and take us to a nice
restaurant where I can have a good dinner--for I am awfully
hungry--you shall have something to eat yourself as well. Now walk on
in front of me, please, and don't waste any more time, for it would be
dreadful if we were discovered."
The man shambled on at once in front of Flower; his strong arms
supported little Pearl comfortably, and she slumbered on in an unbroken
dream.
The bright sunlight had now faded, the short October day was drawing in,
the glory and heat of the morning had long departed, and Flower, whose
green cloth dress was very light in texture, felt herself shivering in
the sudden cold.
"Are you certain you are going to the nearest town?" she called out to
the man.
"Sure-_ly_," he responded back to her. He was stepping along at a
swinging pace, and Flower was very tired, and found it difficult to keep
up with him. Having begged of him so emphatically to hurry, she did not
like to ask him now to moderate his steps. To keep up with him at all
she had almost to run; and she was now not only hungry, cold, and tired,
but the constant quick motion took her breath away. They had left the
border of the moor, and were now in the middle of a most desolate piece
of country. As Flower looked around her she shivered with the first real
sensation of loneliness she had ever known. The moor seemed to fill the
whole horizon. Desolate moor and lowering sky--there seemed to be
nothing else in all the world.
"Where is the nearest town?" she gasped at last. "Oh, what a long, long
way off it is!"
"It's miles away!" said the man, suddenly stopping and turning round
fiercely upon her; "but ef you're hungry, there's a hut yer to the left
where my mother lives. She'll give you a bit of supper and a rest, ef so
be as you can pay her well."
"Oh, yes, I can pay her," responded Flower. The thought of any shelter
or any food was grateful to the fastidious girl now.
"I am very hungry and very tired," she said. "I will gladly rest in your
mother's cottage. Where is it?"
"I said as it wor a hut. There are two dawgs there: be you afeard?"
"Of _dogs_? I am not afraid of anything!" said Flower, curling her short
lip disdainfully.
"You _be_ a girl!" responded the man. He shambled on again in front, and
presently they came in sight of the deserted hermit's hut, where Polly
and Maggie a few weeks before had been led captive. A woman was standing
in the doorway, and by her side, sitting up on their haunches, were two
ugly, lean-looking dogs.
"Down, Cinder and Flinder!" said the woman. "Down you brutes! Now,
Patrick, what have you been up to? Whatever's that in your arms, and
who's a-follering of yer?"
"This yer's a babby," said the man, "and this yer's a girl. She,"
pointing to Flower, "wants to be took to the nearest town, and she have
money to pay, she says."
"Oh! she have money to pay?" said the wife of Micah Jones--for it was
she. "Them as has money to pay is oilers and oilers welcome. Come in,
and set you down by the fire, hinney. Well, well, and so you has brought
a babby with you! Give it to me, Pat. What do you know, you great
hulking feller! about the tending of babbies?"
The man gladly relinquished his charge, then pointed backwards with his
finger at Flower.
"She's cold and 'ungry, and she has money to pay," he said.
"Come in, then, Missy, come in; yer's a good fire, and a hunk of cheese,
and some brown bread, and there'll be soup by-and-by. Yes," winking at
her son, "there'll be good strong soup by-and-by."
Flower, who had come up close to the threshold of the hut, now drew back
a step or two. At sight of the woman her courage had revived, her
feeling of extreme loneliness had vanished, and a good deal of the
insolence which often marked her bearing had in consequence returned to
her.
"I won't go in," she said. "It looks dirty in there and I hate dirt. No,
I won't go in! Bring me some food out here, please. Of course I'll pay
you."
"Highty-tighty!" said the woman. "And is wee babby to stay out in the
cold night air?"
"I forgot about the baby," said Flower. "Give her to me. Is the night
air bad for babies?" she asked, looking up inquiringly at the great
rough woman who stood by her side.
Flower's utter and fearless indifference to even the possibility of
danger had much the same effect on Mrs. Jones that it had upon her son.
They both owned to a latent feeling of uneasiness in her presence. Had
she showed the least trace of fear; had she dreaded them, or tried in
any way to soften them, they would have known how to manage her. But
Flower addressed them much as she would have done menials in her kitchen
at home. The mother, as well as the son, muttered under her
breath--"Never see'd such a gel!" She dropped the baby into Flower's
outstretched arms, and answered her query in a less surly tone than
usual.
"For sure night air is bad for babes, and this little 'un is young. Yes,
werry young and purty."
The woman pulled aside the white fluffy shawl; two soft clear brown eyes
looked up at her, and a little mouth was curved to a radiant smile.
"Fore sure she's purty," said the woman. "Look, Patrick. She minds me
o'--well, never mind. Missy, it ain't good for a babe like that to be
out in the night air. You're best in the house, and so is the babe. The
dawgs shan't touch yer. Come into the house, and I'll give yer what
supper's going, and the babe, pretty crittur, shall have a drink of
milk."
"I would not injure the baby," said Flower. She held both arms firm
round it, and entered the smoky, dismal hut.
The wife of Micah Jones moved a stool in front of the fire, pushed
Flower rather roughly down on it, and then proceeded to cut thick
hunches of sour bread and cheese. This was quite the coarsest food
Flower had ever eaten, and yet she never thought anything more
delicious. While she ate the woman sat down opposite her.
"I'll take the babe now and feed it," she said. "The pretty dear must be
hungry."
It was not little Pearl's way to cry. It was her fashion to look
tranquilly into all faces, and to take calmly every event, whether
adverse or otherwise. When she looked at Flower she smiled, and she
smiled again into the face of the rough woman who, in consequence, fed
her tenderly with the best she had to give.
"Is the soup done?" said the rough man, suddenly coming forward. "It's
soup I'm arter. It's soup as'll put life into Miss, and give her a mind
to walk them miles to the nearest town."
The woman laughed back at her son.
"The soup's in the pot," she said. "You can give it a stir, Pat, if you
will. Nathaniel will be in by-and-by, and he'll want his share. But you
can take a bowl now, if you like, and give one to Missy."
"Ay," said the man, "soup's good; puts life into a body."
He fetched two little yellow bowls filled one for Flower, stirring it
first with a pewter spoon.
"This'll put life into you, Miss," he said.
He handed the bowl of soup to the young girl. All this time the woman
was bending over the baby. Suddenly she raised her head.
"'Tis a bonny babe," she said. "Ef I was you, Pat, I wouldn't stir
Missy's soup. I'd give her your own bowl. I has no quarrel with Miss,
and the babe is fair. Give her your own soup, Patrick."
"It's all right, mother, Miss wouldn't eat as much as in my bowl. You
ain't 'ungry enough for that, be you, Miss?"
"I am very hungry," said Flower, who was gratefully drinking the hot
liquid. "I could not touch this food if I was not _very_ hungry. If I
want more soup I suppose I can have some more from the pot where this
was taken. What is the matter, woman? What are you staring at me for?"
"I think nought at all of you," said the woman, frowning, and drawing
back, for Flower's tone was very rude. "But the babe is bonny. Here,
take her back, she's like--but never mind. You'll be sleepy, maybe, and
'ud like to rest a bit. I meant yer no harm, but Patrick's powerful, and
he and Nat, they does what they likes. They're the sons of Micah Jones,
and he was a strong man in his day. You'd like to sleep, maybe, Missy.
Here, Patrick, take the bowl from the girl's hand."
"I do feel very drowsy," said Flower. "I suppose it is from being out
all day. This hut is smoky and dirty, but I'll just have a doze for five
minutes. Please, Patrick, wake me at the end of five minutes, for I
must, whatever happens, reach the nearest town before night."
As Flower spoke her eyes closed, and the woman, laying her back on some
straw, put the baby into her arms.
"She'll sleep sound, pretty dear," she said. "Ef I was you I wouldn't
harm her, just for the sake of the babe," she concluded.
"Why, mother, what's took you? _I_ won't hurt Missy. It's her own fault
ef she runs away, and steals the baby. That baby belongs to the doctor
what lives in the Hollow; it's nought special, and you needn't be took
up with it. Ah, here comes Nathaniel. Nat, I've found a lass wandering
on the moor, and I brought her home, and now the mother don't want us to
share the booty."
Nathaniel Jones was a man of very few words indeed. He had a fiercer,
wilder eye than his brother, and his evidently was the dominant and
ruling spirit.
"The moon's rising," he said; "she'll be at her full in half an hour. Do
your dooty, mother, for we must be out of this, bag and baggage, in half
an hour."
Without a word or a sigh, or even a glance of remorse, Mrs. Jones took
the cap from Flower's head, and feeling around her neck discovered the
gold chain which held the little bag of valuables. Without opening this
she slipped it into her pocket. Flower's dainty shoes were then removed,
and the woman looked covetously at the long, fine, cloth dress, but
shook her head over it.
"I'd wake her if I took it," she said.
"No, you wouldn't, I drugged the soup well," said Pat.
"Well, anyhow, I'll leave her her dress. There's nought more but a
handkerchief with a bit of lace on it."
"Take the baby's shawl," said Nathaniel, "and let us be off. If the moon
goes down we won't see the track. Here, mother, I'll help myself to the
wrap."
"No, you won't," said the woman. "You don't touch the babe with the pale
face and the smile of Heaven. I'm ready; let's go."
The dogs were called, and the entire party strode in single file along a
narrow path, which led away in a westerly direction over Peg-Top Moor.
CHAPTER VI.
WITHOUT HER TREASURE.
"There is a great fuss made about it all," said Polly.
This was her remark when her father left the pleasant picnic dinner and
drove away over the moor in search of Flower.
"There is a great fuss made over it all. What is Flower more than any
other girl? Why should she rule us all, and try to make things
uncomfortable for us? No, David, you need not look at me like that. If
Flower has got silly Australian notions in her head, she had better get
rid of them as fast as possible. She is living with English people now,
and English people all the world over won't put up with nonsense."
"It isn't Flower's ways I mean," said David. "Her ways and her thoughts
aren't much, but it's--it's when she gets into a passion. There's no
use talking about it--you have done it now, Polly!--but Flower's
passions are awful."
David's eyes filled slowly with tears.
"Oh, you are a cry-baby," said Polly. She knew she was making herself
disagreeable all round. In her heart she admired and even loved David;
but nothing would induce her to say she was sorry for any part she had
taken in Flower's disappearance.
"Everything is as tiresome as possible," she said, addressing her
special ally, Maggie. "There, Mag, you need not stare at me. Your brain
will get as small as ever again if you don't take care, and I know
staring in that stupid way you have is particularly weakening to the
brain. You had better help George to pack up, for I suppose Nell is
right, and we must all begin to think of getting home. Oh, dear, what a
worry it is to have to put up with the whims of other people. Yes, I
understand at last why father hesitated to allow the strangers to come
here."
"I wouldn't grumble any more, if I were you, Polly," said Helen. "See
how miserable David looks. I do hope father will soon find Flower. I did
not know that David was so very fond of her."
"David is nervous," retorted Polly, shortly. Then she turned to and
packed in a vigorous manner, and very soon after the little party
started on their return walk home. It was decidedly a dull walk. Polly's
gay spirits were fitful and forced; the rest of the party did not
attempt to enjoy themselves. David lagged quite behind the others; and
poor Maggie confided to George that somehow or other, she could not tell
why, they were all turning their eyes reproachful-like on her. The sun
had gone in now in the heavens, and the children, who had no sunshine in
their hearts just then, had a vivid consciousness that it was late
autumn, and that the summer was quite at an end.
As they neared the rise in the moor which hid Sleepy Hollow from view,
David suddenly changed his position from the rear to the van. As they
approached the house he stooped down, picked up a small piece of paper,
looked at it, uttered a cry of fear and recognition, and ran off as fast
as ever he could to the house.
"What a queer boy David is!" was on Polly's lips; but she could scarcely
say the words before he came out again. His face was deadly white, he
shook all over, and the words he tried to say only trembled on his lips.
"What is it, David?" said the twins, running up to him.
"She'll believe me now," said David.
He panted violently, his teeth chattered.
"Oh! David, you frighten us! What can be the matter? Polly, come here!
Nell, come and tell us what is the matter with David."
The elder girls, and the rest of the children, collected in the porch.
Polly, the tallest of all, looked over the heads of the others. She
caught sight of David's face, and a sudden pain, a queer sense of fear,
and the awakening of a late remorse, filled her breast.
"What is it, David?" she asked, with the others; but her voice shook,
and was scarcely audible.
"She's done it!" said David. "The baby's gone! It's Flower! She was in
one of her passions, and she has taken the baby away. I said she wasn't
like other girls. Nurse thinks perhaps the baby'll die. What is
it?--oh, Polly! what is it!" For Polly had given one short scream, and,
pushing David and every one aside, rushed wildly into the house.
She did not hear the others calling after her; she heard nothing but a
surging as of great waves in her ears, and David's words echoing along
the passages and up the stairs "Perhaps the baby will die!" She did not
see her father, who held out his arms to detain her. She pushed Alice
aside without knowing that she touched her. In a twinkling she was at
the nursery door; in a twinkling she was kneeling by the empty cot, and
clasping the little frilled pillow on which baby's head used to rest
passionately to her lips.
"It's true, then!" she gasped, at last. "I know now what David meant; I
know now why he warned me. Oh Nursie! Nursie! it's my fault!"
"No, no, my darling!" said Nurse; "it's that dreadful young lady. But
she'll bring her back. Sure, what else could she do, lovey? She'll bring
the little one back, and, by the blessing of the good God, she'll be
none the worse for this. Don't take on so, Miss Polly! Don't look like
that, dear! Why, your looks fairly scare me."
"I'll be better in a minute," said Polly. "This is no time for feelings.
I'll be quiet in a minute. Have you got any cold water? There's such a
horrid loud noise in my ears."
She rushed across the room, poured a quantity of water into a basin, and
laved her face and head.
"Now I can think," she said. "What did Flower do, Nurse? Tell me
everything; tell me in very few words, please, for there isn't a
moment--there isn't half a moment--to lose."
"It was this way, dear: she came into the room, and took baby into her
arms, and asked for some dinner. She didn't seem no way taken with baby
at first, but when I told her how much you loved our little Miss Pearl,
she asked me to give her to her quite greedy-like, and ordered me to
fetch some dinner for herself, for she was starving, she said. I offered
that Alice should bring it; but no, she was all that I should choose
something as would tempt her appetite, and she coaxed with that pretty
way she have, and I went down to the kitchen myself to please her. I'll
never forgive myself, never, to the longest day I live. I wasn't ten
minutes gone, but when I come back with a nice little tray of curry, and
some custard pie, Miss Flower and the baby were away. That's all--they
hasn't been seen since."
"How long ago is that, Nurse?"
"I couldn't rightly tell you, dearie--maybe two hours back. I ran all
round the moor anywhere near, and so did every servant in the house, but
since the Doctor come in they has done the thing properly. Now where are
you going, Miss Polly, love?"
"To my father. I wish this horrid noise wouldn't go on in my head. Don't
worry me, Nurse. I know it was my fault. I wouldn't listen to the
warning, and I would provoke her, but don't scold me now until I have
done my work."
Polly rushed downstairs.
"Where's father?" she asked of Bunny, who was sobbing violently, and
clinging in a frantic manner to Firefly's skirts.
"I--I don't know. He's out."
"He's away on the moor," said Fly. "Polly, are you really anxious about
baby Pearl?"
"I have no time to be anxious," said Polly. "I must find her first. I'll
tell you then if I'm anxious. Where's Nell, where are the twins?"
"On the moor; they all went out with father."
"Which moor, the South or Peg-Top?"
"I think the South moor."
"All right, I'm going out too. What's the matter, Fly? Oh, you're not to
come."
"Please, please, it's so horrid in the house, and Bunny does make my
dress so soppy with crying into it."
"You're not to come. You are to stay here and do your best, your very
best, for father and the others when they come home. If they don't meet
me, say I've gone to look for baby and for Flower. I'll come back when
I've found them. If _they_ find baby and Flower, they might ask to have
the church bells rung, then I'll know. Don't stare at me like that, Fly;
it was my fault, so I must search until I find them."
Polly ran out of the house and down the lawn. Once again she was out on
the moor. The great solitary commons stretched to right and left; they
were everywhere, they filled the whole horizon, except just where Sleepy
Hollow lay, with its belt of trees, its cultivated gardens, and just
beyond the little village and the church with the square, gray tower.
There was a great lump in Polly's throat, and a mist before her eyes.
The dreadful beating was still going on in her heart, and the surging,
ceaseless waves of sound in her ears.
Suddenly she fell on her knees.
"Please, God, give me back little Pearl. Please, God, save little Pearl.
I don't want anything else; I don't even want father to forgive me, if
You will save little Pearl."
Most earnest prayers bring a sense of comfort, and Polly did not feel
quite so lonely when she stood again on her feet, with the bracken and
the fern all round her.
She tried hard now to collect her thoughts; she made a valiant effort to
feel calm and reasonable.
"I can do nothing if I get so excited," she said to herself. "I must
just fight with my anxious spirit. My heart must stay quiet, for my
brain has got to work now. Let me see! where has Flower taken baby?
Father and Nell and the others are all searching the South moor, so I
will go on to Peg-Top. I will walk slowly, and I will look behind every
clump of trees, and I will call Flower's name now and then; for I am
sure, I am quite, quite sure that, however dreadful her passion may have
been, if Flower is the least like me, she will be dreadfully sorry by
now--dreadfully sorry and dreadfully frightened--so if she hears me
calling she will be sure to answer. Oh, dear! oh, dear! here is my heart
speaking again, and my head is in a whirl, and the noises are coming
back into my ears. Oh! how fearfully I hate Flower! How could she, how
could she have taken our darling little baby away? And yet--and yet I
think I'd forgive Flower; I think I'd try to love her; I think I'd even
tell her that I was the one who had done most wrong; I think I'd even go
on my knees and beg Flower's pardon, if only I could hold baby to my
heart again!"
By this time Polly was crying bitterly. These tears did the poor child
good, relieving the pressure on her brain, and enabling her to think
calmly and coherently. While this tempest of grief, however, effected
these good results, it certainly did not improve her powers of
observation; the fast-flowing tears blinded her eyes, and she stumbled
along, completely forgetting the dangerous and uneven character of the
ground over which she walked.
It was now growing dusk, and the dim light also added to poor Polly's
dangers. Peg-Top Moor had many tracks leading in all directions. Polly
knew several of these, and where they led, but she had now left all the
beaten paths, and the consequence was that she presently found herself
uttering a sharp and frightened cry, and discovered that she had fallen
down a fairly steep descent. She was slightly stunned by her fall, and
for a moment or two did not attempt to move. Then a dull pain in her
ankle caused her to put her hand to it, and to struggle giddily to a
sitting position.
"I'll be able to stand in a minute," she said to herself; and she
pressed her hand to her forehead, and struggled bravely against the
surging, waving sounds which had returned to her head.
"I can't sit here!" she murmured; and she tried to get to her feet.
In vain!--a sharp agony brought her, trembling and almost fainting,
once more to a sitting posture. What was she to do?--how was she now to
find Flower and the baby? She was alone on the moor, unable to stir.
Perhaps her ankle was broken; certainly, it was sprained very badly.
CHAPTER VII.
MAGGIE TO THE RESCUE.
When the Maybrights returned home from their disastrous picnic at
Troublous Times Castle, Maggie and George brought up the rear. In
consequence of their being some little way behind the others, Maggie did
not at once know of the fact of Flower's disappearance with the baby.
She was naturally a slow girl; ideas came to her at rare intervals; she
even received startling and terrible news with a certain outward
stolidity and calm. Still, Maggie was not an altogether purposeless and
thoughtless maiden; thoughts occasionally drifted her way; ideas, when
once born in her heart, were slow to die. When affection took root there
it became a very sturdy plant. If there was any one in the world whom
Maggie adored, it was her dear young mistress, Miss Polly Maybright.
Often at night Maggie awoke, and thought, with feelings of almost
worship, of this bright, impulsive young lady. How delightful that week
had been when she and Polly had cooked, and housekeeped, and made cakes
and puddings together! Would any one but Polly have forgiven her for
taking that pound to save her mother's furniture? Would any one in all
the world, except that dear, warm-hearted, impulsive Polly, have
promised to do without a winter jacket in order to return that money to
the housekeeping fund? Maggie felt that, stupid as she knew herself to
be, slow as she undoubtedly was, she could really do great things for
Polly. In Polly's cause her brain could awake, the inertia which more or
less characterized her could depart. For Polly she could undoubtedly
become a brave and active young person.
She was delighted with herself when she assisted Miss Maybright to
descend from her bedroom window, and to escape with her on to the moor,
but her delight and sense of triumph had not been proof against the
solitude of the sad moor, against the hunger which was only to be
satisfied with berries and spring water, and, above all, against the
terrible apparition of the wife of Micah Jones. What Maggie went,
through in the hermit's hut, what terrors she experienced, were only
known to Maggie's own heart. When, however, Mrs. Ricketts got back her
daughter from that terrible evening's experience, she emphatically
declared that "Mag were worse nor useless; that she seemed daft-like,
and a'most silly, and that never, never to her dying day, would she
allow Mag to set foot on them awful lonely commons again."
Mrs. Ricketts, however, was not a particularly obstinate character, and
when Polly's bright face peeped round her door, and Polly eagerly, and
almost curtly, demanded that Maggie should that very moment accompany
her on a delightful picnic to Troublous Times Castle, and Maggie
herself, with sparkling eyes and burning cheeks, was all agog to go, and
was now inclined to pooh-pooh the terrors she had endured in the
hermit's hut, there was nothing for Mrs. Ricketts to do but to forget
her vow and send off the two young people with her blessing.
"Eh, but she's a dear young lady," she said, under her breath,
apostrophizing Miss Maybright. "And Mag do set wonderful store by her,
and no mistake. It ain't every young lady as 'ud think of my Maggie when
she's going out pleasuring; but bless Miss Polly! she seems fairly took
up with my poor gel."
No face could look more radiant than Maggie's when she started for the
picnic, but, on the other hand, no young person could look more
thoroughly sulky and downcast than she did on her return. Mrs. Ricketts
was just dishing up some potatoes for supper when Maggie flung open the
door of the tiny cottage, walked across the room, and flung herself on a
little settle by the fire.
"You're hungry, Mag," said Mrs. Ricketts, without looking up.
"No, I bean't," replied Maggie, shortly.
"Eh, I suppose you got your fill of good things out with the young
ladies and gentlemen. It ain't your poor mother's way to have a bit of
luck like that, and you never thought, I suppose, of putting a slice or
two of plum cake, or maybe the half of a chicken, in your pocket, as a
bit of a relish for your mother's supper. No, no, that ain't your way,
Mag; you're all for self, and that I will say."
"No, I ain't mother. You has no call to talk so. How could I hide away
chicken and plum cake, under Miss Polly's nose, so to speak. I was
setting nigh to Miss Polly, mother, jest about the very middle of the
feast. I had a place of honor close up to Miss Polly, mother."
"Eh, to be sure!" exclaimed Mrs. Ricketts.
She stopped dishing up the potatoes, wiped her brow, and turned to look
at her daughter, with a slow expression of admiration in her gaze.
"Eh," she continued, "you has a way about you, Mag, with all your
contrariness. Miss Polly Maybright thinks a sight on you, Mag; seems to
me as if maybe she'd adopt you, and turn you into a real lady. My word,
I have read of such things in story-books."
"You had better go on dishing up your supper, mother and not be talking
nonsense like that. Miss Polly is a very good young lady, but she hasn't
no thought of folly of that sort. Eh, dear me," continued Maggie,
yawning prodigiously "I'm a bit tired, and no mistake."
"That's always the way," responded Mrs. Ricketts. "Tired and not a word
to say after your pleasuring; no talking about what happened, and what
Miss Helen wore, and if Miss Firefly has got on her winter worsted
stockings yet, and not a mention of them foreigners as we're all dying
to hear of, and not a word of what victuals you ate, nor nothing. You're
a selfish girl, Maggie Ricketts, and that I will say, though I am your
mother."
"I'm sleepy," responded Maggie, who seemed by no means put out by this
tirade on the part of her mother. "I'll go up to bed if you don't mind,
mother. No, I said afore as I wasn't hungry."
She left the room, crept up the step-ladder to the loft, where the
family slept, and opening the tiny dormer window, put her elbows on the
sill and gazed out on the gathering gloom which was settling on the
moor.
The news of the calamity which had befallen Polly had reached Maggie's
ears. Maggie thought only of Polly in this trouble; it was Polly's baby
who was lost, it was Polly whose heart would be broken. She did not
consider the others in the matter. It was Polly, the Polly whom she so
devotedly loved, who filled her whole horizon. When the news was told
her she scarcely said a word; a heavy, "Eh!--you don't say!" dropped
from her lips. Even George, who was her informer, wondered if she had
really taken in the extent of the catastrophe; then she had turned on
her heel and walked down to her mother's cottage.
She was not all thoughtless and all indifferent, however. While she
looked so stoical and heavy she was patiently working out an idea, and
was nerving herself for an act of heroism.
Now as she leant her elbows on the sill by the open window, cold Fear
came and stood by her side. She was awfully frightened, but her resolve
did not falter. She meant to slip away in the dusk and walk across
Peg-Top Moor to the hermit's hut. An instinct, which she did not try
either to explain away or prove, led her to feel sure that she should
find Polly's baby in the hermit's hut. She would herself, unaided and
alone, bring little Pearl back to her sister.
It would have been quite possible for Maggie to have imparted her ideas
to George, to her mother, or to some of the neighbors. There was not a
person in the village who would not go to the rescue of the Doctor's
child. Maggie might have accompanied a multitude, had she so willed it,
to the hermit's hut. But then the honor and glory would not have been
hers; a little reflection of it might shine upon her, but she would not
bask, as she now hoped to do, in its full rays.
She determined to go across the lonely moor which she so dreaded alone,
for she alone must bring back Pearl to Polly.
Shortly before the moon arose, and long after sunset, Maggie crept down
the attic stairs, unlatched the house door, and stepped out into the
quiet village street. Her fear was that some neighbors would see her,
and either insist on accompanying her on her errand, or bring her home.
The village, however, was very quiet that night, and at nine o'clock,
when Maggie started on her search, there were very few people out.
She came quickly to the top of the small street, crossed a field,
squeezed through a gap in the hedge, and found herself on the borders of
Peg-Top Moor. The moon was bright by this time, and there was no fear of
Maggie not seeing. She stepped over the ground briskly, a solitary
little figure with a long shadow ever stalking before her, and a
beating, defiant heart in her breast. She had quite determined that
whatever agony she went through, her fears should not conquer her; she
would fight them down with a strong hand, she would go forward on her
road, come what might.
Maggie was an ignorant little cottager, and there were many folk-lore
tales abroad with regard to the moor which might have frightened a
stouter heart than hers. She believed fully in the ghost who was to be
seen when the moon was at the full, pacing slowly up and down, through
that plantation of trees at her right; she had unswerving faith in the
bogey who uttered terrific cries, and terrified the people who were
brave enough to walk at night through Deadman's Glen. But she believed
more fully still in Polly, in Polly's love and despair, and in the
sacredness of the errand which she was now undertaking to deliver her
from her trouble.
From Mrs. Ricketts' cottage to the hermit's hut there lay a stretch of
moorland covering some miles in extent, and Maggie knew that the lonely
journey she was taking could not come to a speedy end.
She knew, however, that she had got on the right track and that by
putting one foot up and one foot down, as the children do who want to
reach London town, she also at last would come to her destination.
The moon shone brightly, and the little maid, her shadow always going
before her, stepped along bravely.
Now and then that same shadow seemed to assume gigantic and unearthly
proportions, but at other times it wore a friendly aspect, and somewhat
comforted the young traveler.
"It's more or less part of me," quoth Maggie, "and I must say as I'm
glad I have it, it's better nor nought; but oh ain't the moon fearsome,
and don't my heart a-flutter, and a pit-a-pat! I'm quite sure now, yes,
I'm quite gospel sure that ef I was to meet the wife of Micah Jones, I'd
fall flat down dead at her feet. Oh, how fearsome is this moor! Well, ef
I gets hold of Miss Pearl I'll never set foot an it again. No, not even
for a picnic, and the grandest seat at the feast, and the best of the
victuals."
The moon shone on, and presently the interminable walk came to a
conclusion. Maggie reached the hermit's hut, listened with painful
intentness for the baying of some angry dogs, pressed her nose against
the one pane of glass in the one tiny window, saw nothing, heard
nothing, finally lifted the latch, and went in.
CHAPTER VIII.
THE HERMIT'S HUT.
It was perfectly dark inside the hut, for the little window, through
which the moon might have shone, was well shrouded with a piece of old
rug. It was perfectly dark, and Maggie, although she had stumbled a good
deal in lifting the latch, and having to descend a step without knowing
it, had all but tumbled headlong into the tiny abode, had evoked no
answering sound or stir of any sort.
She stood still for a moment in the complete darkness to recover breath,
and to consider what she was to do. Strange to say, she did not feel at
all frightened now; the shelter of the four walls gave her confidence.
There were no dogs about, and Maggie felt pretty sure that the wife of
Micah Jones was also absent, for if she were in the hut, and awake, she
would be sure to say, "Who's there?" quoth Maggie, to her own heart;
"and ef she's in the hut, and asleep, why it wouldn't be like her not to
snore."
The little girl stood still for a full minute; during this time she was
collecting her faculties, and that brain, which Polly was pleased to
call so small, was revolving some practical schemes.
"Ef I could only lay my hand on a match, now," she thought.
She suddenly remembered that in her mother's cottage the match-box was
generally placed behind a certain brick near the fireplace; it was a
handy spot, both safe and dry, and Maggie, since her earliest days, had
known that if there was such a luxury as a box of matches in the house,
it would be found in this corner. She wondered if the wife of Micah
Jones could also have adopted so excellent a practice. She stepped
across the little hut, felt with her hands right and left, poked about
all round the open fireplace, and at last, joy of joys, not only
discovered a box with a few matches in it, but an end of candle besides.
In a moment she had struck a match, had applied it to the candle, and
then, holding the flickering light high, looked around the little hut.
A girl, crouched up against the wall on some straw, was gazing at her
with wide-open terrified eyes; the girl was perfectly still, not a
muscle in her body moved, only her big frightened eyes gazed fixedly at
Maggie. She wore no hat on her head; her long yellow hair lay in
confusion over her shoulders; her feet were shoeless, and one arm was
laid with a certain air of protection on a wee white bundle on the straw
by her side.
"Who are you?" said Flower, at last. "Are you a ghost, or are you the
daughter of the dreadful woman who lives in this hut? See! I had a long
sleep. She put me to sleep, I know she did; and while I was asleep she
stole my purse and rings, and my hat and shoes. But that's nothing,
that's nothing at all. While I was asleep, baby here died. I know she's
quite dead, she has not stirred nor moved for hours, at least it seems
like hours. What are you staring at me in that rude way for, girl? I'm
quite sure the baby, Polly's little sister, is dead."
Nobody could speak in a more utterly apathetic way than Flower. Her
voice neither rose nor fell. She poured out her dreary words in a
wailing monotone.
"I know that it's my fault," she added; "Polly's little sister has died
because of me."
She still held her hand over the white bundle.
"I'm terrified, but not of you," she added; "you may be a ghost,
stealing in here in the dark; or you may be the daughter of that
dreadful woman. But whoever you are, it's all alike to me. I got into
one of my passions. I promised my mother when she died that I'd never
get into another, but I did, I got into one to-day. I was angry with
Polly Maybright; I stole her little sister away, and now she's dead. I
am so terrified at what I have done that I never can be afraid of
anything else. You need not stare so at me, girl; whoever you are I'm
not afraid of you."
Maggie had now found an old bottle to stick her candle into.
"I am Miss Polly's little kitchen-maid, Maggie Ricketts," she replied.
"I ain't a ghost, and I haven't nothing to say to the wife of Micah
Jones. As to the baby, let me look at it. You're a very bad young lady,
Miss Flower, but I has come to fetch away the baby, ef you please, so
let me look at it this minute. Oh, my, how my legs do ache; that moor is
heavy walking! Give me the baby, please, Miss Flower. It ain't your
baby, it's Miss Polly's."
"So, you're Maggie?" said Flower. There was a queer shake in her voice.
"It was about you I was so angry. Yes, you may look at the baby; take it
and look at it, but I don't want to see it, not if it's dead."
Maggie instantly lifted the little white bundle into her arms, removed a
portion of the shawl, and pressed her cheek against the cheek of the
baby.
The little white cheek was cold, but not deadly cold, and some faint,
faint breath still came from the slightly parted lips.
When Maggie had anything to do, no one could be less nervous and more
practical.
"The baby ain't dead at all," she explained. "She's took with a chill,
and she's very bad, but she ain't dead. Mother has had heaps of babies,
and I know what to do. Little Miss Pearl must have a hot bath this
minute."
"Oh, Maggie," said Flower. "Oh, Maggie, Maggie!"
Her frozen indifference, her apathy, had departed. She rose from her
recumbent position, pushed back her hair and stood beside the other
young girl, with eyes that glowed, and yet brimmed over with tears.
"Oh, what a load you have taken off my heart!" she exclaimed. "Oh, what
a darling you are! Kiss me, Maggie, kiss me, dear, dear Maggie."
"All right, Miss. You was angry with me afore, and now you're a-hugging
of me, and I don't see no more sense in one than t'other. Ef you'll hold
the baby up warm to you, Miss, and breathe ag'in her cheek werry
gentle-like, you'll be a-doing more good than a-kissing of me. I must
find sticks, and I must light up a fire, and I must do it this minute,
or we won't have no baby to talk about, nor fuss over."
Maggie's rough and practical words were perhaps the best possible tonic
for Flower at this moment. She had been on the verge of a fit of
hysterics, which might have been as terrible in its consequences as
either her passion or her despair. Now trembling slightly, she sat down
on the little stool which Maggie had pulled forward for her, took the
baby in her arms, and partly opening the shawl which covered it,
breathed on its white face.
The little one certainly was alive, and when Flower's breath warmed it,
its own breathing became stronger.
Meanwhile, Maggie bustled about. The hermit's hut, now that she had
something to do in it, seemed no longer at all terrible. After a good
search round she found some sticks, and soon a bright fire blazed and
crackled, and filled the tiny house with light and warmth. A pot of
water was put on the fire to warm, and then Maggie looked round for a
vessel to bathe the baby in. She found a little wooden tub, which she
placed ready in front of the fire.
"So far, so good!" she exclaimed; "but never a sight of a towel is there
to be seen. Ef you'll give me the baby now, Miss, I'll warm her limbs a
bit afore I put her in the bath. I don't know how I'm to dry her, I'm
sure, but a hot bath she must have."
"I have got a white petticoat on," said Flower. "Would that be any use?"
"Off with it this minute, then, Miss; it's better nor nought. Now, then,
my lamb! my pretty! see ef Maggie don't pull you round in a twinkling!"
She rubbed and chafed the little creature's limbs, and soon baby opened
her eyes, and gave a weak, piteous cry.
"I wish I had something to give her afore I put her in the bath," said
Maggie. "There's sure to be sperits of some sort in a house like this.
You look round you and see ef you can't find something, Miss Flower."
Flower obediently searched in the four corners of the hut.
"I can't see anything!" she exclaimed. "The place seems quite empty."
"Eh, dear!" said Maggie: "you don't know how to search. Take the baby,
and let me."
She walked across the cabin, thrust her hand into some straw which was
pressed against the rafters, pulled out an old tin can and opened it.
"Eh, what's this?" she exclaimed. "Sperits? Now we'll do. Give me the
baby back again, Miss Flower, and fetch a cup, ef you please."
Flower did so.
"Put some hot water into it. Why, you ain't very handy! Miss Polly's
worth a dozen of you! Now pour in a little of the sperit from the tin
can--not too much. Let me taste it. That will do. Now, baby--now, Miss
Polly's darling baby!--I'll wet your lips with this, and you'll have
your bath, and you'll do fine!"
The mixture was rubbed on the blue lips of the infant, and Maggie even
managed to get her to swallow a few drops. Then, the bath being prepared
by Flower, under a shower of scathing ridicule from Maggie, who had very
small respect, in any sense of the word, for her assistant, the baby was
put into it, thoroughly warmed, rubbed up, and comforted, and then, with
the white fleecy shawl wrapped well around her, she fell asleep in
Maggie's arms.
"She'll do for the present," said the kitchen-maid, leaning back and
mopping a little moisture from her own brow. "She'll do for a time, but
she won't do for long, for she'll want milk and all kinds of comforts.
And I tell you what it is, Miss Flower, that my master and Miss Polly
can't be kept a-fretting for this child until the morning. Some one must
go at once, and tell 'em where she is, and put 'em out of their misery,
and the thing is this: is it you, or is it me, that's to do the job?"
"But," said Flower--she had scarcely spoken at all until now--"cannot
we both go? Cannot we both walk home, and take the baby with us?"
"No, Miss, not by no means. Not a breath of night air must touch the
cheeks of this blessed lamb. Either you or me, Miss Flower, must walk
back to Sleepy Hollow, and tell 'em about the baby, and bring back
Nurse, and what's wanted for the child. Will you hold her, Miss? and
shall I trot off at once?--for there ain't a minute to be lost."
"No," said Flower, "I won't stay in the hut. It is dreadful to me. I
will go and tell the Doctor and Polly."
"As you please, Miss. Maybe it is best as I should stay with little
Missy. You'll find it awful lonesome out on the moor, Miss Flower, and I
expect when you get near Deadman's Glen as you'll scream out with
terror; there's a bogey there with a head three times as big as his
body, and long arms, twice as long as they ought to be, and he tears up
bits of moss and fern, and flings them at yer, and if any of them, even
the tiniest bit, touches yer, why you're dead before the year is out.
Then there's the walking ghost and the shadowy maid, and the brown lady,
the same color as the bracken when it's withering up, and--and--why,
what's the matter, Miss Flower?"
"Only I respected you before you talked in that way," said Flower. "I
respected you very much, and I was awfully ashamed of not being able to
eat my dinner with you. But when you talk in such an awfully silly way I
don't respect you, so you had better not go on. Please tell me, as well
as you can, how I'm to get to Sleepy Hollow, and I'll start off at
once."
"You must beware of the brown lady, all the same."
"No, I won't beware of her; I'll spring right into her arms."
"And the bogey in Deadman's Glen. For Heaven's sake, Miss Flower, keep
to the west of Deadman's Glen."
"If Deadman's Glen is a short cut to Sleepy Hollow, I'll walk through
it. Maggie, do you want Nurse to come for little Pearl, or not? I don't
mind waiting here till morning; it does not greatly matter to me. I was
running away, you know."
"You must go at once," said Maggie, recalled to common sense by another
glance at the sleeping child. "The baby's but weakly, and there ain't
nothing here as I can give her, except the sperits and water, until
Nurse comes. I'll lay her just for a minute on the straw here, and go
out with you and put you on the track. You follow the track right on
until you see the lights in the village. Sleepy Hollow's right in the
village, and most likely there'll be a light in the Doctor's study
window; be quick, for Heaven's sake, Miss Flower?"
"Yes, I'm off. Oh, Maggie, Maggie! what do you think? That dreadful
woman has stolen my shoes. I forgot all about it until this minute. What
shall I do? I can't walk far in my stockings."
"Have my boots, Miss; they're hob-nailed, and shaped after my foot,
which is broad, as it should be, seeing as I'm only a kitchen-maid. But
they're strong, and they are sure to fit you fine."
"I could put my two feet into one of them," responded Flower, curling
her proud lip once again disdainfully. But then she glanced at the baby,
and a queer shiver passed over her; her eyes grew moist, her hands
trembled.
"I will put the boots on," she said. And she slipped her little feet, in
their dainty fine silk stockings, into Maggie's shoes.
"Good-by, Miss; come back as soon as you can," called out the faithful
waiting-maid, and Flower set off across the lonely moor.
CHAPTER IX.
AN OLD SONG.
It took a great deal to frighten Polly Maybright; no discipline, no hard
words, no punishments, had ever been able to induce the smallest
sensation of fear in her breast. As to the moor, she had been brought up
on it; she had drank in its air, and felt its kindly breath on her
cheeks from her earliest days. The moors were to Polly like dear,
valued, but somewhat stern, friends. To be alone, even at night, in one
of the small ravines of Peg-Top Moor had little in itself to alarm the
moorland child.
It took Polly some time to realize that she was absolutely unable to
stir a step. Struggle as she might, she could not put that badly-injured
foot to the ground. Even she, brave and plucky as she was, had not the
nerve to undergo this agony. She could not move, therefore she could do
nothing at present to recover little Pearl. This was really the thought
which distressed her. As to sleeping with her head pressed against the
friendly bracken, or staying on Peg-Top Moor all night, these were small
considerations. But not to be able to stir a step to find the baby, to
feel that Flower was carrying the baby farther and farther away, and
that Polly's chance of ever seeing her again was growing less and less,
became at last a thought of such agony that the poor little girl could
scarcely keep from screaming aloud.
"And it was all my fault!" she moaned. "I forgot what father said about
climbing the highest mountain. When David came to me, and told me that
Flower was subject to those awful passions, I forgot all about my
mountain-climbing. I did not recognize that I had come to a dangerous
bit, so that I wanted the ropes of prayer and the memory of mother to
pull me over it. No, I did nothing but rejoice in the knowledge that I
didn't much like Flower, and that I was very, very glad to tease her.
Now I am punished. Oh, oh, what shall I do? Oh, if baby is lost! If baby
dies, I shall die too! Oh, I think I'm the most miserable girl in all
the world! What shall I do? Why did mother go away? Why did Flower come
here? Why did I want her to come? I made a mess of the housekeeping, and
now I have made a mess of the visit of the strangers. Oh, I'm the sort
of girl who oughtn't to go a step alone!--I really, really am! I think
I'm the very weakest sort of girl in all the world!"
Polly sobbed and sobbed. It was not her custom to give way thus utterly,
but she was in severe pain of body, and she had got a great shock when
the loss of little Pearl had been announced by David.
"What shall I do?" she moaned and sobbed. "Oh, I'm the sort of girl who
oughtn't to go a step alone."
While she cried all by herself on the moor, and the friendly stars
looked down at her, and the moon came out and shone on her poor forsaken
little figure, an old verse she used to say in her early childhood
returned to her memory. It was the verse of a hymn--a hymn her mother
was fond of, and used often to sing, particularly about the time of the
New Year, to the children.
Mrs. Maybright had a beautiful voice, and on Sunday evenings she sang
many hymns, with wonderful pathos and feeling, to her children. Polly,
who cared for music on her own account, had loved to listen. At these
times she always looked hungrily into her mother's face, and a longing
and a desire for the best things of all awoke in her breast. It was at
such times as these that she made resolves, and thought of climbing high
and being better than others.
Since her mother's death, Polly could not bear to listen to hymns. In
church she had tried to shut her ears; her lips were closed tight, and
she diligently read to herself some other part of the service. For her
mother's sake, the hymns, with that one beautiful voice silent, were
torture to her; but Polly was a very proud girl, and no one, not even
her father, who now came nearest to her in all the world, guessed what
she suffered.
Now, lying on the moor, her mother's favorite hymn seemed to float down
from the stars to her ears:
"I know not the way I am going,
But well do I know my Guide;
With a trusting faith I give my hand
To the loving Friend at my side."
"The only thing that I say to Him
As He takes it is, 'Hold it fast!
Suffer me not to lose my way,
And bring me home at last!'"
It did not seem at all to Polly that she was repeating these words
herself; rather they seemed to be said to her gently, slowly,
distinctly, by a well-loved and familiar voice.
It was true, then, there was a Guide, and those who were afraid to go
alone could hold a Hand which would never lead them astray.
Her bitter sobs came more quietly as she thought of this. Gradually her
eyes closed, and she fell asleep.
When Flower started across the moor it was quite true that she was not
in the least afraid. A great terror had come to her that night; during
those awful minutes when she feared the baby was dead, the terror of the
deed she had done had almost stunned her; but when Maggie came and
relieved her of her worst agony, a good deal of her old manner and a
considerable amount of her old haughty, defiant spirit had returned.
Flower was more or less uncivilized; there was a good deal of the wild
and of the untamed about her; and now that the baby was alive, and
likely to do well, overwhelming contrition for the deed she had done no
longer oppressed her.
She stepped along as quickly as her uncomfortable boots would admit. The
moonlight fell full on her slender figure, and cast a cold radiance over
her uncovered head. Her long, yellow hair floated down over her
shoulders; she looked wonderfully ethereal, almost unearthly, and had
any of the villagers been abroad, they might well have taken her for one
of the ghosts of the moor.
Flower had a natural instinct for finding her way, and, aided by
Maggie's directions, she steered in a straight course for the village.
Not a soul was abroad; she was alone, in a great solitude.
The feeling gave her a certain sense of exhilaration. From the depths of
her despair her easily influenced spirits sprang again to hope and
confidence. After all, nothing very dreadful had happened. She must
struggle not to give way to intemperate feelings. She must bear with
Polly! she must put up with Maggie. It was all very trying, of course,
but it was the English way. She walked along faster and faster, and now
her lips rose in a light song, and now again she ran, eager to get over
the ground. When she ran her light hair floated behind her, and she
looked less and less like a living creature.
Polly had slept for nearly two hours. She awoke to hear a voice singing,
not the sweet, touching, high notes which had seemed to fall from the
stars to comfort her, but a wild song:
"Oh, who will up and follow me?
Oh, who will with me ride?
Oh, who will up and follow me
To win a bonny bride?"
For a moment Polly's heart stood still; then she started forward with a
glad and joyful cry.