a voice of rapture. "That is Flower's song and Flower's voice, and she
wouldn't sing so gayly if baby was not quite, quite well, and if she was
not bringing her home."
Polly rose, as well as she could, to a sitting posture, and shouted out
in return:
"Here I am, Flower. Come to me. Bring me baby at once."
Even Flower, who in many respects had nerves of iron, was startled by
this sudden apparition among the bracken. For a brief instant she
pressed her hand to her heart. Were Maggie's tales true? Were there
really queer and unnatural creatures to be found on the moor?
"Come here, Flower, here! I have sprained my ankle. What are you afraid
of?" shouted Polly again. Then Flower sprang to her side, knelt down by
her, and took her cold hand in hers. Flower's slight fingers were warm;
she was glowing all over with life and exercise.
"Where's baby?" said Polly, a sickly fear stealing over her again when
she saw that the queer girl was alone.
"Baby? She's in the hermit's hut with Maggie. Don't scold me, Polly. I'm
very sorry I got into a passion."
Polly pushed Flower's fingers a little away.
"I don't want to be angry," she said. "I've been asking God to keep me
from being angry. I did wrong myself, I did very wrong, only you did
worse; you did worse than I did, Flower."
"I don't see that at all. At any rate, I have said I am sorry. No one is
expected to beg pardon twice. How is it you are out here, lying on the
moor, Polly? Are you mad?"
"No. I came out to look for baby, and for you."
"But why are you here? You could not find us in that lazy fashion."
"Look at my foot; the moonlight shines on it. See, it is twisted all
round. I fell from a height and hurt myself. I have been lying here for
hours."
"Poor Polly! I am really sorry. I once strained my foot like that. The
pain was very bad--very, very bad. Mother kept my foot on her knee all
night; she bathed it all night long; in the morning it was better."
"Please, Flower, don't mind about my foot now. Tell me about baby. Is
she ill? Have you injured her?"
"I don't know. I suppose I did wrong to take her out like that. I said
before, I was sorry. I was frightened about her, awfully frightened,
until Maggie came in. I was really afraid baby was dead. I don't want to
speak of it. It wasn't true. Don't look at me like that. Maggie came,
and said that little Pearl lived. I was so relieved that I kissed
Maggie, yes, actually, although she is only a kitchen-maid. Maggie got a
warm bath ready, and put baby in, and when I left the hut she was sound
asleep. Maggie knew exactly what to do for her. Fancy my kissing her,
although she is only a kitchen-maid!"
"She is the dearest girl in the world!" said Polly. "I think she is
noble. Think of her going to the hermit's hut, and finding baby, and
saving baby's life. Oh, she is the noblest girl in the world, miles and
miles above you and me!"
"You can speak for yourself. I said she behaved very well. It is
unnecessary to compare her to people in a different rank of life. Now,
do you think you can lean on me, and so get back to Sleepy Hollow?"
"No, Flower. I cannot possibly stir. Look at my foot; it is twisted the
wrong way."
"Then I must leave you, for Maggie has sent me in a great hurry to get
milk, and comforts of all sorts, for baby."
"Please don't stay an instant. Run, Flower. Why did you stay talking so
long? If father is in the house, you can tell him, and he will come, I
know, and carry me home. But, oh! get everything that is wanted for baby
first of all. I am not of the smallest consequence compared to baby. Do
run, Flower; do be quick. It frets me so awfully to see you lingering
here when baby wants her comforts."
"I shan't be long," said Flower. She gathered up her skirts, and sped
down the path, and Polly gave a sigh of real relief.
CHAPTER X.
LOOKING AT HERSELF.
That night, which was long remembered in the annals of the Maybright
family as one of the dreariest and most terrible they had ever passed
through, came to an end at last. With the early dawn Polly was brought
home, and about the same time Nurse and Maggie reappeared with baby on
the scene.
Flower, after she had briefly told her tidings, went straight up to her
own room, where she locked the door, and remained deaf to all entreaties
on David's part that he might come in and console her.
"She's always dreadful after she has had a real bad passion," he
explained to Fly, who was following him about like a little ghost. "I
wish she would let me in. She spends herself so when she is in a passion
that she is quite weak afterwards. She ought to have a cup of tea; I
know she ought."
But it was in vain that David knocked, and that little Fly herself, even
though she felt that she hated Flower, brought the tea. There was no
sound at the other side of the locked door, and after a time the anxious
watchers went away.
At that moment, however, had anybody been outside, they might have seen
pressed against the window-pane in that same room a pale but eager face.
Had they looked, too, they might have wondered at the hard lines round
the young, finely-cut lips, and yet the eager, pleading watching in the
eyes.
There was a stir in the distance--the far-off sound of wheels. Flower
started to her feet, slipped the bolt of her door, ran downstairs, and
was off and away to meet the covered carriage which was bringing baby
home.
She called to George, who was driving it, to stop. She got in, and
seated herself beside Nurse and baby.
"How is she? Will she live?" she asked, her voice trembling.
"God grant it!" replied the Nurse. "What are you doing, Miss Flower? No,
you shan't touch her."
"I must! Give her to me this moment. There is Dr. Maybright. Give me
baby this moment. I must, I _will_, have her!"
She almost snatched the little creature out of Nurse's astonished arms,
and as the carriage drew up at the entrance steps sprang out, and put
the baby into Dr. Maybright's arms.
"There!" she said; "I took her away, but I give her back. I was in a
passion and angry when I took her away; now I repent, and am sorry, and
I give her back to you? Don't you see, I can't do more than give her
back to you? That is our way out in Victoria. Don't you slow English
people understand? I was angry; now I am sorry. Why do you all stand
round and stare at me like that? Can anybody be more than sorry, or do
more than give back what they took?"
"It is sometimes impossible to give back what we took away, Flower,"
replied the Doctor, very gravely.
He was standing in the midst of his children; his face was white; his
eyes had a strained look in them; the strong hands with which he clasped
little Pearl trembled. He did not look again at Flower, who shrank away
as if she had received a blow, and crept upstairs.
For the rest of the day she was lost sight of; there was a great deal of
commotion and excitement. Polly, when she was brought home, was
sufficiently ill and suffering to require the presence of a doctor;
little Pearl showed symptoms of cold, and for her, too, a physician
prescribed.
Why not Dr. Maybright? The children were not accustomed to strange faces
and unfamiliar voices when they were ill or in pain. Polly had a curious
feeling when the new doctor came to see her; he prescribed and went
away. Polly wondered if the world was coming to an end; she was in
greater pain than she had ever endured in her life, and yet she felt
quiet and peaceful. Had she gone up a step or two of the mountain she so
longed to climb? Did she hear the words of her mother's favorite song,
and was a Guide--_the_ Guide--holding her childish hand?
The hour of the long day passed somehow.
If there was calm in Polly's room, and despair more or less in poor
Flower's, the rest of the house was kept in a state of constant
excitement. The same doctor came back again; doors were shut and opened
quickly; people whispered in the corridors. As the hours flew on, no one
thought of Flower in her enforced captivity, and even Polly, but for
Maggie's ceaseless devotion, might have fared badly.
All day Flower Dalrymple remained in her room. She was forgotten at
meal-times. Had David been at home, this would not have been the case;
but Helen had sent David and her own little brothers to spend the day at
Mrs. Jones's farm. Even the wildest spirits can be tamed and brought to
submission by the wonderful power of hunger, and so it came to pass that
in the evening a disheveled-looking girl opened the door of her pretty
room over the porch, and slipped along the passages and downstairs.
Flower went straight to the dining-room; she intended to provide herself
with bread and any other food she could find, then to return to her
solitary musings. She thought herself extremely neglected, and the
repentance and sense of shame which she had more or less experienced in
the morning and the memory of Dr. Maybright's words and the look in has
grave eyes had faded under a feeling of being unloved, forsaken,
forgotten. Even David had never come near her--David, who lived for
her. Was she not his queen as well as sister? Was he not her dutiful
subject as well as her little brother?
All the long day that Flower had spent in solitude her thoughts grew
more and more bitter, and only hunger made her now forsake her room. She
went into the dining-room; it was a long, low room, almost entirely
lined with oak. There was a white cloth on the long center table, in the
middle of which a lamp burnt dimly; the French windows were open; the
blinds were not drawn down. As Flower opened the door, a strong cold
breeze caused the lamp to flare up and smoke, the curtains to shake, and
a child to move in a restless, fretful fashion on her chair. The child
was Firefly; her eyes were so swollen with crying that they were almost
invisible under their heavy red lids; her hair was tossed; the rest of
her little thin face was ghastly pale.
"Is that you, Flower?" she exclaimed. "Are you going to stay here? If
you are, I'll go away."
"What do you mean?" said Flower. "_You_ go away? You can go or stay,
just as you please. I have come here because I want some food, and
because I've been shamefully neglected and starved all day. Ring the
bell, please, Fly. I really must order up something to eat."
Fly rose from her chair. She had long, lanky legs and very short
petticoats, and as she stood half leaning against the wall, she looked
so forlorn, pathetic, and yet comical, that Flower, notwithstanding her
own anger and distress, could not help bursting out laughing.
"What is the matter?" she said. "What an extraordinary little being you
are! You look at me as if you were quite afraid of me. For pity's sake,
child, don't stare at me in that grewsome fashion. Ring the bell, as I
tell you, and then if you please you can leave the room."
There was a very deep leather arm-chair near the fireplace. Into this
now Flower sank. She leant her head comfortably against its cushions,
and gazed at Firefly with a slightly sarcastic expression.
"Then you don't know!" said Fly, suddenly. "You sit there and look at
me, and you talk of eating, as if any one could eat. You don't know. You
wouldn't sit there like that if you really knew."
"I think you are the stupidest little creature I ever met!" responded
Flower. "I'm to know something, and it's wonderful that I care to eat. I
tell you, child, I haven't touched food all day, and I'm starving.
What's the matter? Speak! I'll slap you if you don't."
"There's bread on the sideboard," said Fly. "I'm sorry you're starving.
It's only that father is ill; that--that he's very ill. I don't suppose
it is anything to you, or you wouldn't have done it."
"Give me that bread," said Flower. She turned very white, snatched a
piece out of Fly's hand, and put it to her lips. She did not swallow it,
however. A lump seemed to rise in her throat.
"I'm faint for want of food," she said in a minute. "I'd like some wine.
If David was here, he'd give it to me. What's that about your father?
Ill? He was quite well this morning; he spoke to me."
She shivered.
"I'm awfully faint," she said in a moment. "Please, Fly, be merciful.
Give me half a glass of sherry."
Fly started, rushed to the sideboard, poured a little wine into a glass,
and brought it to Flower.
"There!" she said in a cold though broken-hearted voice. "But you
needn't faint; he's not your father; you wouldn't have done it if he was
your father."
Flower tossed off the wine.
"I'm better now," she said.
Then she rose from the deep arm-chair, stood up, and put her two hands
on Fly's shoulder.
"What have I done? What do you accuse me of?"
"Don't! You hurt me, Flower; your hands are so hard."
"I'll take them off. What have I done?"
"We are awfully sorry you came here. We all are; we all are."
"Yes? you can be sorry or glad, just as you please! What have I done?"
"You have made father, our own father--you have made him ill. The
doctor thinks perhaps he'll die, and in any case he will be blind."
"What horrid things you say, child! _I_ haven't done this."
"Yes. Father was out all last night. You took baby away, and he went to
look for her, and he wasn't well before, and he got a chill. It was a
bad chill, and he has been ill all day. You did it, but he wasn't your
father. We are all so dreadfully sorry that you came here."
Flower's hands dropped to her sides. Her eyes curiously dilated, looked
past Fly, gazing so intently at something which her imagination conjured
up that the child glanced in a frightened way over her shoulder.
"What's the matter, Flower? What are you looking at?"
"Myself."
"But you can't see yourself."
"I can. Never mind. Is this true what you have been telling me?"
"Yes, it's quite true. I wish it was a dream, and I might wake up out of
it."
"And you all put this thing at my door?"
"Yes, of course. Dr. Strong said--Dr. Strong has been here twice this
evening--he said it was because of last night."
"_Sometimes we can never give back what we take away._" These few words
came back to Flower now.
"And you all hate me?" she said, after a pause.
"We don't love you, Flower; how could we?"
"You hate me?"
"I don't know. Father wouldn't like us to hate anybody."
"Where's Helen?"
"She's in father's room."
"And Polly?"
"Polly is in bed. She's ill, too, but not in danger, like father. The
doctor says that Polly is not to know about father for at any rate a
day, so please be careful not to mention this to her, Flower."
"No fear!"
"Polly is suffering a good deal, but she's not unhappy, for she doesn't
know about father."
"Is baby very ill, too?"
"No. Nurse says that baby has escaped quite wonderfully. She was
laughing when I saw her last. She has only a little cold."
"I am glad that I gave her to your father myself," said Flower, in a
queer, still voice. "I'm glad of that. Is David anywhere about?"
"No. He's at the farm. He's to sleep there to-night with Bob and Bunny,
for there mustn't be a stir of noise in the house."
"Well, well, I'd have liked to say good-by to David. You're quite sure,
Fly, that you all think it was _I_ made your father ill?"
"Why, of course. You know it was."
"Yes, I know. Good-by, Fly."
"Good-night, you mean. Don't you want something to eat?"
"No. I'm not hungry now. It isn't good-night; it's good-by."
Flower walked slowly down the long, low, dark room, opened the door,
shut it after her, and disappeared.
Fly stood for a moment in an indifferent attitude at the table. She was
relieved that Flower had at last left her, and took no notice of her
words.
Flower went back to her room. Again she shut and locked her door. The
queer mood which had been on her all day, half repentance, half
petulance, had completely changed. It takes a great deal to make some
people repent, but Flower Dalrymple was now indeed and in truth facing
the consequences of her own actions. The words she had said to Fly were
quite true. She had looked at herself. Sometimes that sight is very
terrible. Her fingers trembled, her whole body shook, but she did not
take a moment to make up her mind. They all hated her, but not more than
she hated herself. They were quite right to hate her, quite right to
feel horror at her presence. Her mother had often spoken to her of the
consequences of unbridled passion, but no words that her mother could
ever have used came up to the grim reality. Of course, she must go away,
and at once. She sat down on the side of her bed, pressed her hand to
her forehead, and reflected. In the starved state she was in, the little
drop of wine she had taken had brought on a violent headache. For a time
she found it difficult to collect her thoughts.
CHAPTER XI.
THE WORTH OF A DIAMOND.
Flower quite made up her mind to go away again. Her mood, however, had
completely changed. She was no longer in a passion; on the contrary, she
felt stricken and wounded. She would go away now to hide herself,
because her face, her form, the sound of her step, the echo of her
voice, must be painful to those whom she had injured. She shuddered as
she recalled Firefly's sad words:
"Father says it is wrong to hate any one, but, of course, we cannot love
you."
She felt that she could never look Polly in the face again, that Helen's
gentle smile would be torture to her. Oh, of course she must go away;
she must go to-night.
She was very tired, for she had really scarcely rested since her fit of
mad passion, and the previous night she had never gone to bed. Still all
this mattered nothing. There was a beating in her heart, there was a
burning sting of remorse awakened within her, which made even the
thought of rest impossible.
Flower was a very wild and untaught creature; her ideas of right and
wrong were of the crudest. It seemed to her now that the only right
thing was to run away.
When the house was quiet, she once more opened her little cabinet, and
took from thence the last great treasure which it contained. It was one
solitary splendid unset diamond. She had not the least idea of its
value, but she knew that it would probably fetch a pound or two. She had
not the least notion of the value of money or of the preciousness of the
gem which she held in her hand, but she thought it likely that it would
supply her immediate needs.
The house was quite still now. She took off her green cloth dress, put
on a very plain one of black cashmere, slipped a little velvet cap on
her head, wrapped a long white shawl round her, and thus equipped opened
her door, and went downstairs.
She was startled at the foot of the stairs to encounter Maggie. Maggie
was coming slowly upwards as Flower descended, and the two girls paused
to look at one another. The lamps in the passages were turned low, and
Maggie held a candle above her head; its light fell full on Flower.
"You mustn't go to Miss Polly on no account, Miss Flower," said Maggie,
adopting the somewhat peremptory manner she had already used to Flower
in the hermit's hut. "Miss Polly is not to be frightened or put out in
any way, leastways not to-night."
"You mean that you think I would tell her about Dr. Maybright?"
"Perhaps you would, Miss; you're none too sensible."
Flower was too crushed even to reply to this uncomplimentary speech.
After a pause, she said:
"I'm not going to Polly. I'm going away. Maggie, is it true that
the--that Dr. Maybright is very ill?"
"Yes, Miss, the Doctor's despert bad."
Maggie's face worked; her candle shook; she put up her other hand to
wipe away the fast-flowing tears.
"Oh, don't cry!" said Flower, stamping her foot impatiently. "Tears do
no good, and it wasn't you who did it."
"No, Miss, no, Miss; that's a bit of a comfort. I wouldn't be you, Miss
Flower, for all the wide world. Well, I must go now; I'm a-sleeping in
Miss Polly's room to-night, Miss."
"Why, is Polly ill, too?"
"Only her foot's bad. I mustn't stay, really, Miss Flower."
"Look here," said Flower, struck by a sudden thought, "before you go
tell me something. Your mother lives in the village, does she not?"
"Why, yes, Miss, just in the main street, down round by the corner.
There's the baker's shop and the butcher's, and you turn round a sharp
corner, and mother's cottage is by your side."
"I've a fancy to go and see her. Good-night."
"But not at this hour, surely, Miss?"
"Why not? I was out later last night."
"That's true. Well, I must go to Miss Polly now. Don't you make any
noise when you're coming in, Miss! Oh, my word!" continued Maggie to
herself, "what can Miss Flower want with mother? Well, she is a
contrairy young lady mischievous, and all that, and hasn't she wrought a
sight of harm in this yer house! But, for all that, mother'll be mighty
took up with her, for she's all for romance, mother is, and Miss
Flower's very uncommon. Well, it ain't nought to do with me, and I'll
take care to tell no tales to Miss Polly, poor dear."
The night was still and calm; the stars shone peacefully; the wind,
which had come in gusts earlier in the evening, had died down. It took
Flower a very few minutes to reach the village, and she wasn't long in
discovering Mrs. Ricketts' humble abode.
That good woman had long retired to rest, but Flower's peremptory
summons on the door soon caused a night-capped head to protrude out of a
window, a burst of astonishment to issue from a wonder-struck pair of
lips, and a moment later the young lady was standing by Mrs. Ricketts'
fireside.
"I'm proud to see you, Miss, and that I will say. Set down, Miss, do
now, and I'll light up the fire in a twinkling."
"No, you needn't," said Flower. "I'm hot; I'm burning. Feel me; a fire
would drive me wild."
"To be sure, so you are, all in a fever like," said Mrs. Ricketts,
laying her rough hand for a moment on Flower's dainty arm. "You'll let
me light up the bit of a paraffin lamp, then, Miss, for it ain't often
as I have the chance of seeing a young lady come all the way from
Australy."
"You can light the lamp, if you like," said Flower. "And you can stare at
me as much as you please. I'm just like any one else, only wickeder.
I've come to you, Mrs. Ricketts, because you're Maggie's mother, and
Maggie's a good girl, and I thought perhaps you would help me."
"I'm obligated for the words of praise about my daughter, Miss. Yes, she
don't mean bad, Maggie don't. What can I do to help you, Miss? Anything
in my power you are kindly welcome to."
"Have you ever seen a diamond, Mrs. Ricketts?"
"I don't know, I'm sure, Miss."
"Diamonds are very valuable stones, you know."
"Maybe, Miss. They ain't in my way. I wish you'd let me light you a bit
of fire, Miss Flower. You'll have the chills presently, Miss, for you're
all of a burning fever now."
"You can do anything you like in the way of fire by-and-by. I have a
diamond here. Shall I show it to you?"
"Oh, law, Miss, I'm sure you are condescending."
"Come over close to the paraffin lamp. Now you shall see. Doesn't it
sparkle!"
Mrs. Ricketts dropped a curtsey to the gem, which, unpolished as it was,
cast forth strange reflections, giving her, as she afterwards explained,
a "queer feel" and a sense of chill down the marrow of her back.
"This is very valuable," said Flower. "I don't know what it is worth,
but my father gave it to my mother, and she gave it to me. She said it
would be well for me to have it in case of emergency. Emergency has
come, and I want to sell this stone. It is very likely that whoever buys
it from me will become rich. Would you like it? You shall have it for
what money you have in the house."
"Oh, law, Miss! but I'm a very poor woman, Miss."
Mrs. Ricketts curtseyed again, and drew closer. "For all the world, it
looks as if it were alive, Miss."
"All valuable diamonds look as if they lived. If this were cut and
polished it would dazzle you."
"And if I had it, I could sell it for a good bit of money?"
"I am sure you could. I don't know for how much, but for more than I am
likely to get from you."
"I'd like to pay Miss Polly back that pound as Maggie took from her."
"Don't worry me about your debts. Will you have this beautiful uncut
diamond for the money you have in the house?"
Mrs. Ricketts did not reply for a moment.
"I have nine shillings and fourpence-halfpenny," she said at last, "and
to-morrow is rent day. Rent will be eight shillings; that leaves me
one-and-fourpence-half penny for food. Ef I give you all my money, Miss,
how am I to pay rent? And how are the children to have food to-morrow?"
"But you can sell the diamond. Why are you so dreadfully stupid? You can
sell the diamond for one, two, or perhaps three pounds. Then how rich
you will be."
"Oh, Miss! there's no one in this yer village 'ud give away good money
for a bit of a stone like that; they'd know better. My word! it do send
out a sort of a flame, though; it's wondrous to look upon!"
"People will buy it from you in a town. Go to the nearest town, take it
to a jeweler, and see how rich you will be when you come out of his
shop. There, I will give it to you for your nine-and-fourpence-half
penny."
Flower laid the diamond in the woman's hand.
"It seems to burn me like," she said. But all the same her fingers
closed over it, and a look of greed and satisfaction filled her face.
"I don't know if I'm a-doin' right," she said, "for perhaps this ain't
worth sixpence, and then where's the rent and the food? But, all the
same, I don't like to say no to a pretty lady when she's in trouble. Here's
the nine-and-fourpence-halfpenny, Miss. I earned it bit by bit by washing
the neighbors' clothes; it wasn't easy come by; there's labor in it, and
aches and dead-tiredness about it. You take it, Miss. I only trust the
diamond will repay what I loses on that nine-and-fourpence-half penny."
Flower handled the money as if she thought it dirty.
Without a word she slipped it into the pocket of her dress.
"I am going away," she said. "They are angry with me at Sleepy Hollow. I
have done wrong. I am not a bit surprised. I'm going away, so as not to
cause them any more trouble."
"Oh, law, now, Miss! but they'll fret to part with you."
"No they won't. Anyhow, it isn't your affair. I'm going away as soon as
I possibly can. Can you tell me where the nearest railway station is?"
"There's none closer than Everton, and that's a matter of five mile from
here."
"I must get there as quickly as possible. What road shall I take?"
"Do you think, Miss, I'd let a pretty young lady like you trape the
lanes in the dead of night? No, no; carrier goes between two and three
in the morning. You might go with him, if you must go."
"That is a good thought. Where does the carrier live?"
"Three doors from here. I'll run round presently and tell him to call."
"Thank you. Do you think nine-and-fourpence-halfpenny will take me to
Bath?"
"To Bath, Miss? It might, if you condescended to third class."
"Third class will do very well. Did you ever hear Polly Maybright speak
of an aunt of hers, a Mrs. Cameron?"
Mrs. Ricketts, whose back was half turned to Flower while she shut
and locked the box out of which she had taken the precious
nine-and-fourpence-halfpenny, now sprang to her feet, and began to speak
in a tone of great excitement.
"Did I hear of her?" she exclaimed. "Did I hear of the woman--for lady
she ain't--what turned my Maggie out of her good place, and near broke
Miss Polly's heart? Don't mention Mrs. Cameron, please, Miss Flower, for
talk of her I won't; set eyes on her I wouldn't, no, not if I was to
receive a pound for it!"
"You needn't get so excited," said Flower; "you have not got to see
Polly's aunt; only I thought perhaps you could give me her address, for
I am going to her to-morrow."
"I wouldn't, Miss, if I was you."
"Yes, you would if you were me. What is Mrs. Cameron's address?"
"I don't know as I can rightly tell you, Miss."
"Yes, you must. I see you know it quite well."
"Well then, well then--you won't like her a bit, Miss Flower."
"What's her address?"
"Jasper Street; I think it's Jasper Street."
"And the number? She doesn't live in the whole of Jasper Street."
"Now, was it a one and a six or a one and a seven?" queried Mrs.
Ricketts. "Oh, Miss! if I was you, I wouldn't go near her; but I think
her number is a one and a seven."
"Seventeen, you mean."
"Yes, that's it; I was never great at counting."
CHAPTER XII.
RELICS AND A WELCOME.
Mrs. Cameron's house in Bath was decidedly old-fashioned. It was a
large, solemn, handsome mansion; its windows shone from constant
cleaning; its paint was always fresh, its Venetian blinds in perfect
order.
When a certain wild, untidy, almost disreputable-looking girl ran up its
snow-white steps, and rang its highly polished brass bell, the neat
parlor maid who answered her summons stared at her, and doubted a good
deal if Mrs. Cameron could see her.
"You had better step into the hall for a moment," said the maidservant,
"and I'll inquire if my missis is at leisure; but if it's the new
housemaid's place you've come after----"
Flower gasped; she drew herself up, raised her hand, and took off her
small black velvet cap.
"You forget yourself!" she said, with a haughtiness which did not ill
become her, notwithstanding her untidy and dishevelled state. "My name
is Flower Dalrymple, and I have come from Sleepy Hollow. Please let your
mistress know directly."
The parlor maid, who saw her mistake, was profuse in apologies.
She showed Flower into a dismal-looking dining room, and went upstairs.
"Who is it, Ann?" asked an anxious voice as she prepared to ascend the
richly-carpeted stairs.
A door was opened at the end of the passage, and a fusty, dusty-looking
little man put in an appearance.
"Who is it, Ann? Any one for me?"
"A young lady as wants to see the missis, sir. Oh, Mr. Cameron! what a
deal of dust you has brought out into the 'all!"
The little man looked meekly down at his dusty garments.
"I have just been unpacking my last crate of curiosities from China,
Ann. Where is the young lady? Perhaps she would like to see the relics."
"No, sir, that I'm sure she wouldn't; she's all blown and spent like.
She's for all the world like a relic herself."
Ann tripped lightly upstairs, and Mr. Cameron, pushing his spectacles
high up on his bald forehead, looked with an anxious glance to right and
left. Then very quickly on tiptoe he crossed the hall, opened the
dining-room door, and went in.
"How are you, young lady? If you are very quick, I can get you into my
sanctum sanctorum. I am just unpacking Chinese relics. I trust, I hope,
you are fond of relics."
Flower started to her feet.
"I thought, I certainly thought, Polly said _Mrs._ Cameron," she
remarked. "I don't think I shall be at all afraid to live with you. I
don't exactly know what Chinese relics are, but I should love to see
them."
"Then quick, my dear, quick! We haven't a minute to spare. She's sure to
be down in a jiffy. Now then, step on tiptoe across the hall. Ann has
the quickest ears, and she invariably reports. She's not a nice girl,
Ann isn't. She hasn't the smallest taste for relics. My dear, there's an
education in this room, but no one, no one who comes to the house, cares
to receive it."
While the little man was talking, he was rushing across the wide hall,
and down a long passage, Flower's hand clasped in his. Finally he pushed
open a baize-lined door, hastily admitted himself and Flower, and closed
it behind them. The sanctum sanctorum was small, stuffy, dusty, dirty.
There were several chairs, but they were all piled with relics, two or
three tables were also crammed with tokens of the past. Flower was very
weary, the dust and dirt made her sneeze, and she looked longingly for
even the smallest corner of a chair on which to seat herself.
"I do want some breakfast so badly," she began.
"Breakfast! My love, you shall have it presently. Now then, we'll begin.
This case that I have just unpacked contains teeth and a small portion
of a jawbone. Ah! hark! what is that? She is coming already! Will that
woman never leave me in peace? My love, the object of my life, the one
object of my whole life, has been to benefit and educate the young. I
thought at last I had found a pupil, but, ah, I fear she is very angry!"
The sound of a sharp voice was heard echoing down the stairs and along
the passage, a sharp, high-pitched voice, accompanied by the sharper,
shriller barking of a small dog.
"Zeb! I say, Zeb! Zebedee, if you have taken that young girl into your
sanctum, I desire you to send her out this moment."
The little man's face grew pale; he pushed his spectacles still higher
on his forehead.
"There, my love, do you hear her? I did my best for you. I was beginning
your education."
"Zeb! Zeb! Open the door this minute," was shouted outside.
"You'll remember, my love, to your dying day, that I showed you three
teeth and the bit of jawbone of a Chinaman who died a thousand years
ago."
"Zeb!" thundered the voice.
"Yap! yap! yap!" barked the small dog.
"You must go, my dear. She's a powerful woman. She always has her way.
There, let me push you out. I wouldn't have her catch sight of me at
this moment for fifty pounds."
The green baize door was opened a tiny bit, a violent shove was
administered to Flower's back, and she found herself in the arms of Mrs.
Cameron, and in extreme danger of having her nose bitten off by the
infuriated Scorpion.
"Just like Zebedee!" exclaimed the good lady. "Always struggling to
impart the dry bones of obsolete learning to the young! Come this way,
Miss--Miss--what's your name?"
"Dalrymple--Flower Dalrymple."
"An outlandish title, worthy of Sleepy Hollow. I have not an idea who
you are, but come into the dining-room."
"Might I---- might I have a little breakfast?"
"Bless me, the child looks as if she were going to faint! Ann, Ann, I
say! Down, Scorpion! You shall have no cream if you bark any more. Ann,
bring half a glass of port wine over here, and make some breakfast for
Miss--Miss Rymple as fast as you can."
"_Dal_rymple, please!"
"Don't worry me, child. I can't get my tongue round long names. Now,
what is it you are called? Daisy? What in the world have you come to me
for, Daisy?"
"I'm Flower----"
"Well, and isn't Daisy a flower? Now then, Daisy Rymple, tell your story
as quickly as possible. I don't mind giving you breakfast, but I'm as
busy as possible to-day. I've six committee meetings on between now and
two o'clock. Say your say, Daisy, and then you can go."
"But I've come to stay."
"To _stay_? Good gracious! Scorpion, down, sir! Now, young lady, have
you or have you not taken leave of your senses?"
"No, really. May I tell you my story?"
"If you take ten minutes over it; I won't give you longer time."
"I'll try to get it into ten minutes. I'm an Australian, and so is
David. David is my brother. We came over in the _Australasia_ about six
weeks ago. Dr. Maybright met us in London, and took us down to Sleepy
Hollow."
"Bless the man!--just like him. Had he any responsible matron or
spinster in the house, child?"
"I don't know; I don't think so. There was Helen and Polly and----"
"I don't want to hear about Polly! Go on; your ten minutes will soon be
up. Go on."
"A couple of days ago we went on a picnic--I have a way of getting into
awful passions--and Polly--Polly vexed me."
"Oh, she vexed you? You're not the first that young miss has vexed, I
can tell you."
"She vexed me; I oughtn't to have minded; I got into a passion; I felt
awful; I ran away with baby."
"Goodness me! what is the world coming to? You don't mean to say you
have dared to bring the infant here, Daisy?"
"No, no. I ran away with her on to the moors. I was so frightened, for I
thought baby had died. Then Maggie came, and she saved her life, and she
was brought home again."
"That's a good thing; but I can't see why you are troubling me with this
story."
"Yesterday morning I gave baby back to Dr. Maybright. He's not like
other people; he looked at me, and his look pierced my heart. He said
something, too, and then for the first time I began to be really, really
sorry. I went up to my room; I stayed there alone all day; I was
miserable."
"Served you right if you were, Daisy."
"In the evening I was so hungry, I went down for food. I met Firefly;
she told me the worst."
"Then the baby died? You really are an awful girl, Daisy Rymple."
"No. The baby is pretty well, and Polly, who sprained her foot running
after me, is pretty well; but it's--it's Dr. Maybright--the best man I
ever met--a man who could have helped me and made me a--a good
girl--he's very, very ill, and they think he may die. He wasn't strong,
and he was out all night looking for baby and me, and he got a bad
chill, and he--he may be dead now. It was my doing; Fly told me so."
Flower laid her head on the table; her long sustained fortitude gave
way; she sobbed violently.
Her tears stained Mrs. Cameron's snowy table-linen; her head was pressed
down on her hands; her face was hidden. She was impervious in her woe to
any angry words or to the furious barking of a small dog.
At last a succession of violent shakes recalled her to herself.
"_Will_ you sit up?--spoiling my damask and shedding tears into the
excellent coffee I have made for you. Ah, that's better; now I can see
your face. Don't you know that you are a very naughty, dangerous sort of
girl?"
"Yes, I know that quite well. Mother always said that if I didn't check
my passion I'd do great mischief some day."
"And right she was. I don't suppose the table-linen will ever get over
those coffee stains mixed with tears. Now, have the goodness to tell me,
Daisy, or Ivy, or whatever you are called, why you have come to tell
this miserable, disgraceful story to me."
"Fly said they none of them could love me now."
"I should think not, indeed! No one will love such a naughty girl. What
have you come to me for?"
"I thought I could stay with you for a little, until there was another
home found for me."
"Oh, ah! Now at last we have come to the bottom of the mystery. And I
suppose you thought I'd pet you and make much of you?"
"I didn't. I thought you'd scold me and be very cross. I came to you as
a punishment, for Polly always said you were the crossest woman she ever
met."
"Polly said that? Humph! Now eat up your breakfast quickly, Daisy. I'm
going out. Don't stir from this room until I come back."
Mrs. Cameron, who had come downstairs in her bonnet, slammed the
dining-room door after her, walked across the hall, and let herself out.
It did not take her many minutes to reach the telegraph office. From,
there she sent a brief message to Helen Maybright:
"_Sorry your father is ill. Expect me this evening with Daisy Rymple._"
CHAPTER XIII.
VERY ROUGH WEATHER.
With all her easy and languishing ways, Flower Dalrymple had often gone
through rough times. Her life in Australia had given to her experiences
both of the extreme of luxury and the extreme of roughing, but never in
the course of her young life did she go through a more uncomfortable
journey than that from Mrs. Cameron's house in Bath to Sleepy Hollow. It
was true that Scorpion, Mrs. Cameron, and Flower, traveled first-class;
it was true also that where it was necessary for them to drive the best
carriages to be procured were at their service; but, as on all and every
occasion Scorpion was king of the ceremonies these arrangements did not
add to Flower's comfort. Mrs. Cameron, who felt seriously angry with the
young girl, addressed all her conversation to the dog, and as the dog
elected to sit on Flower's lap, and snapped and snarled whenever she
moved, and as Mrs. Cameron's words were mostly directed through the
medium of Scorpion at her, her position was not an agreeable one.
"Ah-ha, my dear doggie!" said the good lady. "Somebody has come to the
wrong box, has she not? Somebody thought I would take her in, and be
kind to her, and pet her, and give her your cream, did she not? But no
one shall have my doggie's cream; no, that they shan't!"
"Mrs. Cameron," said Flower, when these particularly clever and lucid
remarks had continued for nearly an hour, "may I open the window of the
carriage at this side? I'm quite stifling."
Mrs. Cameron laid a firm, fat hand upon the window cord, and bent again
over the pampered Scorpion.
"And is my doggie's asthma not to be considered for the sake of somebody
who ought not to be here, who was never invited nor wished for, and is
now to be returned like a bad penny to where she came from? Is my own
dearest little dog to suffer for such a person's whims? Oh, fie! oh,
fie! Well, come here my Scorpion; your mistress won't reject you."
For Flower, in a fit of ungovernable temper, had suddenly dashed the
petted form of Scorpion to the ground.
The poor angry girl now buried herself in the farthest corner of the
railway carriage. From there she could hear Mrs. Cameron muttering about
"somebody's" temper, and hoping that "somebody" would get her deserts.
These remarks, uttered several times, frightened Flower so much that at
last she looked up, and said, in a queer, startled voice:
"You don't think Dr. Maybright is going to die? You can't be so awfully
wicked as to think that."
"Oh, we are wicked, are we, Scorpion?" said Mrs. Cameron, her fat hand
gently stroking down Scorpion's smooth fur from tip to tail. "Never
mind, Scorpion, my own; never mind. When the little demon of temper gets
into somebody she isn't quite accountable, is she?"
Flower wondered if any restraining power would keep her from leaping out
of the window.
But even the weariest journey comes to an end at last, and twenty-four
hours after she had left Sleepy Hollow, Flower, feeling the most
subdued, the most abject, the most brow-beaten young person in
Christendom, returned to it. Toward the end of the journey she felt
impervious to Mrs. Cameron's sly allusions, and Scorpion growled and
snapped at her in vain. Her whole heart was filled with one
over-powering dread. How should she find the Doctor? Was he better? Was
he worse? Or had all things earthly come to an end for him; and had he
reached a place where even the naughtiest girl in all the world could
vex and trouble him no longer?
When the hired fly drew up outside the porch, Flower suddenly remembered
her first arrival--the gay "Welcome" which had waved above her head;
the kind, bright young faces that had come out of the darkness to greet
her; the voice of the head of the house, that voice which she was so
soon to learn to love, uttering the cheeriest and heartiest words of
greeting. Now, although Mrs. Cameron pulled the hall-door bell with no
uncertain sound, no one, for a time at least, answered the summons, and
Flower, seizing her opportunity, sprang out of the fly and rushed into
the house.
The first person she met, the very first, was Polly. Polly was sitting
at the foot of the stairs, all alone. She had seated herself on the
bottom step. Her knees were huddled up almost to her chin. Her face was
white, and bore marks of tears. She scarcely looked up when Flower ran
to her.
"Polly! Polly! How glad I am you at least are not very ill."
"Is that you, Flower?" asked Polly.
She did not seem surprised, or in any way affected.
"Yes, my leg does still ache very much. But what of that? What of
anything now? He is worse! They have sent for another doctor. The doctor
from London is upstairs; he's with him. I'm waiting here to catch him
when he comes down, for I must know the very worst."
"The very worst!" echoed Flower in a feeble tone.
She tumbled down somehow on to the stair beside Polly, and the next
instant her death-like face lay in Polly's lap.
"Now, my dear, you need not be in the least frightened," said a shrill
voice in Polly's ears. "A most troublesome young person! a most
troublesome! She has just fainted; that's all. Let me fetch a jug of
cold water to pour over her."
"Is that _you_, Aunt Maria?" said Polly. "Oh, yes, there was a telegram,
but we forgot all about it. And is that Scorpion, and is he going to
bark? But he mustn't! Please kneel down here, Aunt Maria, and hold
Flower's head. Whatever happens, Scorpion mustn't bark. Give him to me!"
Before Mrs. Cameron had time to utter a word or in any way to
expostulate, she found herself dragged down beside Flower, Flower's head
transferred to her capacious lap, and the precious Scorpion snatched out
of her arms. Polly's firm, muscular young fingers tightly held the dog's
mouth, and in an instant Scorpion and she were out of sight.
Notwithstanding all his fighting and struggling and desperate efforts to
free himself, she succeeded in carrying him to a little deserted summer
pagoda at a distant end of the garden. Here she locked him in, and
allowed him to suffer both cold and hunger for the remainder of the
night.
There are times when even the most unkind are softened. Mrs. Cameron was
not a sympathetic person. She was a great philanthropist, it is true,
and was much esteemed, especially by those people who did not know her
well. But love, the real name for what the Bible calls charity, seldom
found an entrance into her heart. The creature she devoted most
affection to was Scorpion. But now, as she sat in the still house, which
all the time seemed to throb with a hidden intense life; when she heard
in the far distance doors opening gently and stifled sobs and moans
coming from more than one young throat; when she looked down at the
death-like face of Flower--she really did forget herself, and rose for
once to the occasion.
Very gently--for she was a strong woman--she lifted Flower, and
carried her into the Doctor's study. There she laid her on a sofa, and
gave her restoratives, and when Flower opened her dazed eyes she spoke
to her more kindly than she had done yet.
"I have ordered something for you, which you are to take at once," she
said. "Ah! here it is! Thank you, Alice. Now, Daisy, drink this off at
once."
It was a beaten-up egg in milk and brandy, and when Flower drank it she
felt no longer giddy, and was able to sit up and look around her.
In the meantime Polly and all the other children remained still as mice
outside the Doctor's door. They had stolen on tiptoe from different
quarters of the old house to this position, and now they stood perfectly
still, not looking at one another or uttering a sound, but with their
eyes fixed with pathetic earnestness and appeal at the closed door. When
would the doctors come out? When would the verdict be given? Minutes
passed. The children found this time of tension an agony.
"I can't bear it!" sobbed Firefly at last.
But the others said, "Hush!" so peremptorily, and with such a total
disregard for any one person's special emotions, that the little girl's
hysterical fit was nipped in the bud.
At last there was a sound of footsteps within the room, and the local
practitioner, accompanied by the great physician from London, opened the
door carefully and came out.
"Go in and sit with your father," said one of the doctors to Helen.
Without a word she disappeared into the darkened room, and all the
others, including little Pearl in Nurse's arms, followed the medical men
downstairs. They went into the Doctor's study, where Flower was still
lying very white and faint on the sofa. Fortunately for the peace of the
next quarter of an hour Mrs. Cameron had taken herself off in a vain
search for Scorpion.
"Now," said Polly, when they were all safely in the room--she took no
notice of Flower; she did not even see her--"now please speak; please
tell us the whole truth at once."
She went up and laid her hand on the London physician's arm.
"The whole truth? But I cannot do that, my dear young lady," he said, in
hearty, genial tones. "Bless me!" turning to the other doctor, "do all
these girls and boys belong to Maybright? And so you want the whole
truth, Miss--Miss----"
"I'm called Polly, sir."
"The whole truth, Polly? Only God knows that. Your father was in a weak
state of health; he had a shock and a chill. We feared mischief to the
brain. Oh, no, he is by no means out of the wood yet. Still I have hope
of him; I have great hope. What do you say, Strong? Symptoms have
undoubtedly taken a more favorable turn during the last hour or two."
"I quite agree with you, Sir Andrew," said the local practitioner, with
a profound bow.
"Then, my dear young lady, my answer to you, to all of you, is that,
although only God knows the whole truth, there is, in my opinion,
considerable hope--yes, considerable. I'll have a word with you in the
other room, Strong. Good-by, children; keep up your spirits. I have
every reason to think well of the change which has set in within the
last hour."
The moment the doctors left the room Polly looked eagerly round at the
others.
"Only God knows the truth," she said. "Let us pray to Him this very
minute. Let's get on our knees at once."
They all did so, and all were silent.
"What are we to say, Polly?" asked Firefly at last. "I never did 'aloud
prayers' since mother died."
"Hush! There's the Lord's Prayer," said Polly. "Won't somebody say it?
My voice is choking."
"I will," said Flower.
Nobody had noticed her before; now she came forward, knelt down by
Polly's side, and repeated the prayer of prayers in a steady voice. When
it was over, she put up her hands to her face, and remained silent.
"What are you saying now?" asked Firefly, pulling at her skirt.
"Something about myself."
"What is that?" they all asked.
"I've been the wickedest girl in the whole of England. I have been
asking God to forgive me."
"Oh, poor Flower!" echoed the children, touched by her dreary, forsaken
aspect.
Polly put her arms round her and kissed her.
"We have quite forgiven you, so, of course, God will," she said.
"How noble you are! Will you be my friend?"
"Yes, if you want to have me. Oh, children!" continued Polly, "do you
think we can any of us ever do anything naughty again if father gets
better?"
"He will get better now," said Firefly.
CHAPTER XIV.
A NOVEL HIDING-PLACE.
Whether it was the children's faith or the children's prayer, certain it
is that from that moment the alarming symptoms in connection with Dr.
Maybright's illness abated. It was some days before he was pronounced
out of danger, but even that happy hour arrived in due course, and one
by one his children were allowed to come to see him.
Mrs. Cameron meanwhile arranged matters pretty much as she pleased
downstairs. Helen, who from the first had insisted on nursing her father
herself, had no time to housekeep. Polly's sprained ankle would not get
well in a minute, and, besides, other circumstances had combined to
reduce that young lady's accustomed fire and ardor. Consequently, Mrs.
Cameron had matters all her own way, and there is not the least doubt
that she and Scorpion between them managed to create a good deal of
moral and physical disquietude.
"Well," she said to herself, "when all is said and done, that poor man
who is on the flat of his back upstairs is my sainted Helen's husband;
and if at such a time as this Maria Cameron should harbor ill-will in
her heart it would but ill become the leader of some of the largest
philanthropic societies in Bath. No, for the present my place is here,
and no black looks, nor surly answers, nor impertinent remarks, will
keep Maria Cameron from doing her duty."
Accordingly Mrs. Power gave a month's notice, and Alice wept so
profusely that her eyes for the time being were seriously injured.
Scorpion bit the new kitchen-maid Jane twice, who went into hysterics
and expected hydrophobia daily. But notwithstanding these and sundry
other fracases, Mrs. Cameron steadily pursued her way. She looked into
account-books, she interviewed the butcher, she dismissed the baker, she
overhauled the store-room, and after her own fashion--and a
disagreeable fashion it was--did a good deal of indirect service to the
family.
Flower in particular she followed round so constantly and persistently
that the young girl began to wonder if Mrs. Cameron seriously and really
intended to punish her, by now bereaving her of her senses.
"I don't think I can stand it much longer," said Flower to Polly. "Last
night I was in bed and asleep when she came in. I was awfully tired, and
had just fallen into my first sleep, when that detestable dog snapped at
my nose. There was Mrs. Cameron standing in the middle of the room with
a lighted candle in her hand. 'Get up,' she said. 'What for?' I asked.
'Get up this minute!' she said, and she stamped her foot. I thought
perhaps she would disturb your father, for my room is not far away from
his, so I tumbled out of bed. 'Now, what is the matter?' I asked. 'The
matter?' said Mrs. Cameron. '_That's_ the matter! and _that's_ the
matter! and _that's_ the matter!' And what do you think? She was
pointing to my stockings and shoes, and my other clothes. I always do
leave them in a little heap in the middle of the floor; they're
perfectly comfortable there, and it doesn't injure them in the least.
Well! that awful woman woke me out of my sleep to put them by. She stood
over me, and made me fold the clothes up, and shake out the stockings,
and put the shoes under a chair, and all the time that fiendish dog was
snapping at my heels. Oh, it's intolerable! I'll be in a lunatic asylum
if this goes on much longer!"
Polly laughed; she could not help it; and Firefly and David, who were
both listening attentively, glanced significantly at one another.
The next morning, very, very early, Firefly was awakened by a bump. She
sat up, rubbed her eyes, and murmured, "All right!" under her breath.
"Put something on, Fly, and be quick," whispered David's voice from the
door.
Firefly soon tumbled into a warm frock, a thick outdoor jacket, and a
little fur cap; her shoes and stockings were tumbled on anyhow. Holding
her jacket together--for she was in too great a hurry to fasten
it--she joined David.
"I did it last night," he said; "it's a large hole; he'll never be
discovered there. And now the thing is to get him."
"Oh, Dave, how will you manage that?"
"Trust me, Fly. Even if I do run a risk, I don't care. Anything is
better than the chance of Flower getting into another of her passions."
"Oh, anything, of course," said Fly. "Are you going to kill him, Dave?"
"No. The hole is big; he can move about in it. What I thought of was
this--we'd sell him."
"Sell him? But he isn't ours."
"No matter! He's a public nuisance, and he must be got rid of. There are
often men wandering on the moor who would be glad to buy a small dog
like Scorpion. They'd very likely give us a shilling for him. Then we'd
drop the shilling into Mrs. Cameron's purse. Don't you see? She'd never
know how it got there. Then, you understand, it would really have been
Mrs. Cameron who sold Scorpion."
"Oh, delicious!" exclaimed Fly. "She'd very likely spend the money on
postage stamps to send round begging charity letters."
"So Scorpion would have done good in the end," propounded David. "But
come along now, Fly. The difficult thing is to catch the little brute."
It was still very early in the morning, and the corridors and passages
were quite dark. David and Fly, however, could feel their way about like
little mice, and they soon found themselves outside the door of the
green room, which was devoted to Mrs. Cameron.
"Do you feel this?" said David, putting out his hand and touching Fly.
"This is a long towel; I'm winding part of it round my hand and arm. I
don't want to get hydrophobia, like poor Jane. Now, I'm going to creep
into Mrs. Cameron's room so quietly, that even Scorpion won't wake. I
learned how to do that from the black people in Australia. You may stand
there, Fly, but you won't hear even a pin fall till I come back with
Scorpion."
"If I don't hear, I feel," replied Fly. "My heart does thump so. I'm
just awfully excited. Don't be very long away, Dave."
By this time David had managed to unhasp the door. He pushed it open a
few inches, and then lay flat down on his face and hands. The next
moment he had disappeared into the room, and all was profoundly still.
Fly could hear through the partly open door the gentle and regularly
kept-up sound of a duet of snoring. After three or four minutes the duet
became a solo. Still there was no other sound, not a gasp, not even the
pretense of a bark. More minutes passed by. Had David gone to sleep on
the floor? Was Scorpion dead that he had ceased to snore?
These alarming thoughts had scarcely passed through her mind before
David rejoined her.
"He's wrapped up in this towel," he said. "He's kicking with his hind
legs, but he can't get a squeak out; now come along."
Too careless and happy in the success of their enterprise even to
trouble to shut Mrs. Cameron's door, the two children rushed downstairs
and out of the house. They effected their exit easily by opening the
study window. In a moment or two they were in the shrubbery.
"The hole isn't here," said David. "Somebody might find him here and
bring him back, and that would never do. Do you remember Farmer Long's
six-acre field?"
"Where he keeps the bull?" exclaimed Fly. "You haven't made the hole
there, Dave?"
"Yes, I have, in one corner! It's the best place in all the world, for
not a soul will dare to come near the field while the bull is there. You
needn't be frightened, Fly! He's always taken home at night! He's not
there now. But don't you see how he'll guard Scorpion all day? Even Mrs.
Cameron won't dare to go near the field while the bull is there."
"I see!" responded Fly, in an appreciative voice. "You're a very clever
boy, Dave. Now let's come quick and pop him into the hole."
Farmer Long's six-acre field was nearly a quarter of a mile away, but
the children reached it in good time, and Fly looked down with interest
on the scene of David's excavations. The hole, which must have given the
little boy considerable labor, was nearly three feet deep, and about a
foot wide. In the bottom lay a large beef bone.
"He won't like it much!" said David. "His teeth aren't good; he can only
eat chicken bones, but hunger will make him nibble it by-and-by. Now,
Fly, will you go behind that furze bush and bring me a square, flat
board, which you will find there?"
"What a funny board!" said Fly, returning in a moment. "It's all over
little square holes."
"Those are for him to breathe through," said David. "Now, then, master,
here you go! You won't annoy any one in particular here, unless,
perhaps, you interfere with Mr. Bull's arrangements. Hold the board over
the top of the hole, so, Fly. Now then, I hope you'll enjoy yourself, my
dear amiable little friend."
The bandage which firmly bound Scorpion's mouth was removed. He was
popped into the hole, and the wooden cover made fast over the top. The
children went home, vowing eternal secrecy, which not even tortures
should wring from them.
At breakfast that morning Mrs. Cameron appeared late on the scene. Her
eyes were red with weeping. She also looked extremely cross.
"Helen, I must request you to have some fresh coffee made for me. I
cannot bear half cold coffee. Daisy, have the goodness to ring the bell.
Yes, my dear children, I am late. I have a sad reason for being late;
the dog is nowhere to be found."
A gleam of satisfaction filled each young face. Fly crimsoning greatly,
lowered her eyes; but David looked tranquilly full at Mrs. Cameron.
"Is it that nice little Scorpion?" he asked. "I'm awfully sorry, but I
suppose he went for a walk."
Mrs. Cameron glanced with interest at David's sympathetic face.
"No, my dear boy, that isn't his habit. The dear little dog sleeps, as a
rule, until just the last moment. Then I lift him gently, and carry him
downstairs for his cream."
"I wonder how he likes that bare beef bone?" murmured Fly, almost aloud.
"He's sure to come home for his cream in a moment or two!" said David.
He gave Fly a violent kick under the table.
"Helen," said Mrs. Cameron, "be sure you keep Scorpion's cream."
"There isn't any," replied Helen. "I was obliged to send it up to
father. There was not nearly so much cream as usual this morning. I had
scarcely enough for father."
"You don't mean to tell me you have used up the dog's cream?" exclaimed
Mrs. Cameron. "Well, really, that _is_ too much. The little animal will
starve, he can't touch anything else. Oh, where is he? My little,
faithful pet! My lap feels quite empty without him. My dear children, I
trust you may never love--_love_ a little creature as I love Scorpion,
and then lose him. Yes, I am seriously uneasy, the dog would not have
left me of his own accord."
Here, to the astonishment of everybody, and the intense indignation of
Mrs. Cameron, Fly burst into a scream of hysterical laughter, and hid
her face in Polly's neck.
"What a naughty child!" exclaimed the good lady. "You have no sympathy
with my pet, my darling! Speak this minute. Where is the dog, miss?"
"I expect in his grave," said Fly.
Whereupon Dave suddenly disappeared under the table, and all the others
stared in wonder at Fly.
"Firefly, do you know anything?"
"I expect Scorpion is in his grave. Where is the use of making such a
fuss?" responded Fly.
And she made a precipitate retreat out of the window.
All the remainder of that day was occupied in a vain search for the
missing animal. Mrs. Cameron strongly suspected Firefly, but the only
remark the little girl could be got to make was:
"I am sure Scorpion is in his grave."
Mrs. Cameron said that was no answer, and further insisted that the
child should be severely punished. But as in reply to that, Helen said
firmly that as long as father was in the house no one should punish the
children but him, she felt, for the present, at least, obliged to hold
her sense of revenge in check.
After Fly had gone to bed that night, David crept into her room.
"I've done it all now," he said. "I sold Scorpion to-night for a
shilling to a man who was walking across the moor, and I have just
popped the shilling into Mrs. Cameron's purse. The horrid little brute
worked quite a big hole in the bottom of the grave, Fly, and he nearly
snapped my fingers off when I lifted him out to give him to Jones. But
he's away now, that's a comfort. What a silly thing you were, Fly, to
burst out laughing at breakfast, and then say that Scorpion was in his
grave."
"But it was so true, David. That hole looked exactly like a grave."
"But you have drawn suspicion upon you. Now, Mrs. Cameron certainly
doesn't suspect me. See what she has given me: this beautiful new
two-shilling piece. She said I was a very kind boy, and had done my best
to find her treasure for her."
"Oh, Dave, how could you take it!"
"Couldn't I, just! I'm not a little muff, like you. I intend to buy a
set of wickets with this. Well, good-night, Fly; nobody need fear
hydrophobia after this good day's work."
CHAPTER XV.
A DILEMMA.
A night's sleep had by no means improved Mrs. Cameron's temper. She came
downstairs the next morning so snappish and disagreeable, so much
inclined to find fault with everybody, and so little disposed to see the
faintest gleam of light in any direction, that the children almost
regretted Scorpion's absence, and began to wonder if, after all, he was
not a sort of safety-valve for Mrs. Cameron, and more or less essential
to her existence.
Hitherto this good woman had not seen her brother-in-law; and it was
both Helen's and Polly's constant aim to keep her from the sick room.
It was several days now since the Doctor was pronounced quite out of
danger; but the affection of his eyes which had caused his children so
many anxious fears, had become much worse. As the London oculist had
told him, any shock or chill would do this; and there was now no doubt
whatever that for a time, at least, he would have to live in a state of
total darkness.
"It is a dreadful fate," said Helen to Polly. "Oh, yes, it is a dreadful
fate, but we must not complain, for anything is better than losing him."
"Anything truly," replied Polly. "Why, what is the matter, Flower? How
you stare."
Flower had been lying full-length on the old sofa in the school-room;
she now sprang to her feet, and came up eagerly to the two sisters.
"Could a person do this," she said, her voice trembling with
eagerness--"Could such a thing as this be done: could one give their
eyes away?"
"Flower!"
"Yes, I mean it. Could I give my eyes to Dr. Maybright--I mean just do
nothing at all but read to him and look for him--manage so that he
should know everything just through my eyes. Can I do it? If I can, I
will."
"But, Flower, you are not father's daughter," said Polly in an almost
offended tone. "You speak, Flower--you speak as if he were all the
world to you."
"So he is all the world to me!" said Flower. "I owe him reparation, I
owe him just everything. Yes, Helen and Polly, I think I understand how
to keep your father from missing his eyes much. Oh, how glad I am, how
very glad I am!"
From that moment Flower became more or less a changed creature. She
developed all kinds of qualities which the Maybrights had never given
her credit for. She had a degree of tact which was quite astonishing in
a child of her age. There was never a jarring note in her melodious
voice. With her impatience gone, and her fiery, passionate temper
soothed, she was just the girl to be a charming companion to an invalid.
However restless the Doctor was, he grew quieter when Flower stole her
little hand into his; and when he was far too weak and ill and suffering
to bear any more reading aloud, he could listen to Flower as she recited
one wild ballad after another.
Flower had found her mission, and she was seldom now long away from the
Doctor's bedside.
"Don't be jealous, Polly," said Helen. "All this is saving Flower, and
doing father good."
"There is one comfort about it," said Polly, "that as Aunt Maria
perfectly detests poor Flower, or Daisy, as she calls her, she is not
likely to go into father's room."
"That is true!" said Helen. "She came to the room door the other day,
but Flower was repeating 'Hiawatha,' and acting it a little bit--you
know she can't help acting anything she tries to recite--and Aunt Maria
just threw up her hands and rolled her eyes, and went away."
"What a comfort!" said Polly. "Whatever happens, we must never allow the
dreadful old thing to come near father."
Alack! alas! something so bad had happened, so terrible a tragedy had
been enacted that even Flower and Hiawatha combined could no longer keep
Mrs. Cameron away from her brother-in-law's apartment.
On the second day after Scorpion's disappearance, the good woman called
Helen aside, and spoke some words which filled her with alarm.
"My dear!" she said, "I am very unhappy. The little dog, the little
sunbeam of my life, is lost. I am convinced, Helen! yes, I am convinced,
that there is foul play in the matter. You, every one of you, took a
most unwarrantable dislike to the poor, faithful little animal. Yes,
every one of you, with the exception of David, detested my Scorpion, and
I am quite certain that you all know where he now is."
"But really, Aunt Maria," said Helen, her fair face flushing, "really,
now, you don't seriously suppose that I had anything to say to
Scorpion's leaving you."
"I don't know, my dear. I exonerate David. Yes, David is a good boy; he
was attached to the dog, and I quite exonerate him. But as to the rest
of you, I can only say that I wish to see your father on the subject."
"Oh! Aunt Maria! you are not going to trouble father, so ill as he is,
about that poor, miserable little dog?"
"Thank you, Helen! thank you! poor miserable little dog indeed. Ah! my
dear, you have let the cat out of the bag now. Yes, my dear, I insist on
seeing your father with regard to the _poor, miserable little dog_.
Poor, indeed, am I without him, my little treasure, my little faithful
Scorpion." Here Mrs. Cameron applied her handkerchief to her eyes, and
Helen walked to the window, feeling almost driven to despair.
"I think you are doing wrong!" she said, presently. "It is wrong to
disturb a man like father about any dog, however noble. I am sure I am
right in saying that we, none of us, know anything about Scorpion's
disappearance. However, if you like, and rather than that father should
be worried, I will send for all the children, and ask them the question
one by one before you. I am absolutely sure that they won't think
Scorpion worth a lie."
CHAPTER XVI.
FIREFLY.
Helen experienced some little difficulty in getting her scattered
brothers and sisters together. She could not get any of them to think
seriously of Scorpion's departure. They laughed and lingered over their
own pursuits, and told Helen to her face that she made a great fuss
about nothing; in short, the best part of an hour had gone by before the
Maybrights and the two Dalrymples assembled in Mrs. Cameron's presence
in the morning room.
"It is just this, children," said Helen. "Aunt Maria feels very low
about Scorpion; you see she loved him." Groans here came audibly from
the lips of Bob and Bunny. "Yes!" said Helen, looking severely at her
two little brothers, "Aunt Maria did love Scorpion. She feels very
lonely without him, and she has taken an idea into her head that one or
other of you had something to say to his disappearance. Of course I know
that none of you could be so cruel and heartless, but to satisfy Aunt
Maria, I have asked you all to come here just to tell her that you did
nothing to make Scorpion run away."
"Only we are very glad he did run away!" said Bob, "but as to touching
him, why, I wouldn't with a pair of tongs."
"I wish to say a word!" said Mrs. Cameron. She came forward, and stood
looking very flushed and angry before the assembled group. "I wish to
say that I am sure some of you in your malice deprived me of my dog. I
believe David Dalrymple to be innocent, but as to the rest of you, I may
as well say that I do not believe you, whatever you may tell me."
"Well, after that!" exclaimed all the children.
"I suppose, Helen, after that we may go away?" said Firefly, who was
looking very pale.
"No, Miss!" said Aunt Maria, "you must stay. Your sister Helen does not
wish me to do anything to disturb your father, but I assure you,
children, there are limits even to my patience, and I intend to visit
him this morning and tell him the whole story, unless before you leave
the room you tell me the truth."
Firefly's sallow little face grew whiter and whiter. She glanced
imploringly at David, who looked boldly and unconcernedly back at her;
then, throwing back his head, he marched up to Mrs. Cameron's side.
"You believe that _I_ am innocent, don't you?" he said.
"Certainly, my dear boy. I have said so."
"In that case, perhaps you would not mind my going out a little way on
the moor and having a good look round for the dog, he _may_ have
wandered there, you know, and broken his leg or something." Mrs. Cameron
shuddered. "In any case," continued David, with a certain air of modest
assurance, which became him very much, "it seems a pity that I should
waste time here."
"Certainly; go, my dear lad," answered Mrs. Cameron. "Bring my little
innocent suffering treasure back with you, and I will give you half a
crown."
David instantly left the room, unheeding a short, sharp cry which issued
from Firefly's lips as he passed her.
Most of the other children were laughing; it was impossible for them to
think of anything in connection with Scorpion except as a joke.
"Listen, Aunt Maria," said Helen. "I am afraid you must not treat my
brothers and sisters as you propose. Neither must you trouble father
without the doctor's permission. The fact is, Aunt Maria, we are
Maybrights, and every one who knows anything about us at all _must_ know
that we would scorn to tell a lie. Our father and our dear, dear
mother--your sister whom you loved, Aunt Maria, and for whose sake you
are interested in us--taught us to fear a lie more than anything,
_much_ more than punishment, _much_ more than discovery. Oh, yes, we
have heaps and heaps of faults; we can tease, we can be passionate, and
idle, and selfish; but being Maybrights, being the children of our own
father and mother, we can't lie. The fact is, we'd be afraid to."
Helen's blue eyes were full of tears.
"Bravo! Helen!" said Polly, going up to her sister and kissing her. "She
says just the simple truth, Aunt Maria," she continued, flashing round
in her bright way on the old lady. "We _are_ a naughty set--_you_ know
that, don't you?--but we can't tell lies; we draw the line there."
"Yes, we draw the line there," suddenly said Firefly, in a high-pitched
voice, which sounded as if it was going to crack.
"I admire bravery," said Mrs. Cameron, after a pause. "Ask your
questions, Helen. For my dead sister's sake I will accept the word of a
Maybright. 'Pon my word, you are extraordinary young people; but I
admire girls who are not afraid to speak out, and who uphold their
parents' teaching. Ask the children quickly, Helen, if they know
anything about the dog, for after David's hint about his having strayed
on that awful moor, and perhaps having broken one of his dear little
legs, I feel more uncomfortable than ever about him. For goodness' sake,
Helen! ask your question quickly, and let me get out on the moor to look
for my dog."
"Children," said Helen, coming forward at once, "do you know anything
about Scorpion's loss, _any_thing? Now, I am going to ask you each
singly; as you answer you can leave the room. Polly, I begin with you."
One by one the Maybrights and Flower answered very clear and emphatic
"No's" to Helen's question, and one by one they retired to wait for
their companions in the passage outside.
At last Helen put the question to Firefly. Two big, green-tinted hazel
eyes were raised to her face.
"Yes, Helen, I do know," replied Firefly.
Mrs. Cameron uttered a shriek, and almost fell upon the little girl, but
Helen very gently held her back.
"One minute," she said. "Firefly, what do you know?"
"I'm not going to tell you, Helen." The child's lips quivered, but her
eyes looked up bravely.
"Why so? Please, Aunt Maria, let me speak to her. Why won't you tell
what you know, dear Fly?"
"Because I promised. There, I won't say a word more about it. I do know,
and I won't tell; no, I won't ever, ever tell. You can punish me, of
course, Aunt Maria."
"So I will, Miss. Take that slap for your impertinence. Oh! if you were
my child, should not I give you a whipping. You know what has happened
to my poor _dear_ little dog, and you refuse to tell. But you shall
tell--you wicked cruel little thing--you shall, you must!"
"Shall I take Firefly away and question her?" asked Helen. "Please, Aunt
Maria, don't be too stern with her. She is a timid little thing; she is
not accustomed to people blaming her. She has some reason for this, but
she will explain everything to her sister Nell, won't you, darling?"
The child's lips were trembling, and her eyes filling with tears.
"There's no use in my going away with you, Helen," she replied,
steadily. "I am willing Aunt Maria should punish me, but I can't tell
because I'm a Maybright. It would be telling a lie to say what I know. I
don't mind your punishing me rather badly, Aunt Maria."
"Oh, you don't, don't you?" said Aunt Maria. "Listen; was not that the
sound of wheels?"
"The doctor to see father," explained Helen. "I ought to go."
"Excuse me, my dear, I particularly wish to see your father's medical
adviser this morning. I will not detain him long, but I have a question
I wish to put to him. You stay with your little sister, Helen. I shall
be back soon."
Mrs. Cameron trotted out of the room. In about ten minutes, with an
exultant look on her face, she returned. Firefly was now clasped tightly
in Helen's arms while she sobbed her heart out on her breast.
"Well, Helen, has this _most_ impertinent, naughty child confessed?"
"She has not," said Helen. "I don't understand her; she seems in sore
trouble. Dear little Fly!"
"'Dear little Fly,' indeed! Naughty, wicked little Fly, you mean.
However, my dear, I have come to tell you that I have just had an
interview with the excellent doctor who attends your father. He has gone
up to see him now. He says he does not want to see you at all to-day,
Helen. Well, I spoke to Dr. Strong, and he was _astonished_--absolutely
astonished, when he heard that I had not yet been permitted to see my
brother-in-law. I told him quite frankly that you girls were jealous of
my influence, and used his (Dr. Strong's) name to keep me out of my poor
brother's room. 'But my dear madam,' he said, 'the young ladies labor
under a mistake--a vast, a monstrous mistake. _Nothing_ could do my
poor patient more good than to see a sensible, practical lady like
yourself!' 'Then I may see him this afternoon?' I asked. 'Undoubtedly,
Mrs. Cameron,' he replied; 'it will be something for my patient to look
forward to.' I have arranged then, my dear Helen, to pay a visit to your
father at three o'clock to-day."
Helen could not repress a sigh.
Mrs. Cameron raised her eyebrows with a certain suggestive and
aggravating gesture.
"Ah, my dear," she said, "you must try to keep under that jealous
temperament. Jealousy fostered in the heart overshadows and overclouds
all life. Be warned in time."
"About this child," said Helen, drawing Firefly forward, "what is to be
done about her? You will be lenient, won't you, Aunt Maria, for she is
very young?"
"By the way," said Mrs. Cameron, with the manner of one who had not
heard a word of Helen's last speech, "is this naughty little girl
attached to her father?"
Firefly raised her tear-dimmed face.
"He is my darling----" she began.
"Ah, yes, my dear; I detest exaggerated expressions. If you love him,
you can now prove it. You would not, for instance, wish to give him
anxiety, or to injure him?"
"Oh, no, oh, no! I would rather die."
"Again that sentimental exaggeration; but you shall prove your words. If
you have not confessed to me before three o'clock to-day all you know
about the loss of my treasured dog Scorpion, I shall take you into your
father's sick room, and in his presence dare you to keep your wicked
secret to yourself any longer."
"Oh, you don't mean that," said Firefly. "You can't be so awfully cruel.
Nell, Nell, do say that Aunt Maria doesn't mean that."
The child was trembling violently; her little face was white as death,
her appealing eyes would have softened most hearts.
"Oh, Nell, what shall I do if I make father worse again? For I can't
tell what I know; it would be a lie to tell it, and you said yourself,
Nell, that no Maybright told lies."
Mrs. Cameron smiled grimly.
"I have said it," she remarked; "it all rests with yourself, Firefly. I
shall be ready either to hear your confession or to take you to your
father at three o'clock to-day."
With these words the good lady walked out of the room.
CHAPTER XVII.
TO THE RESCUE.
An hour later a wildly anxious and disconsolate little figure might have
been seen knocking at Polly's door. No answer from within. A moment of
suspense on the part of the little figure, followed by another and
louder knock; then the small, nervous fingers turned the handle of the
door, and Firefly pushed her head in and peered anxiously round.
Oh, dear! oh, dear! No Polly was in the room. And why did the great
eight-day clock in the hall strike twelve? Why, on this morning of all
mornings, should time go on wings? Firefly had great faith in Polly's
powers of helping her. But the moments were too precious to waste them
in trying to find her. She had another search to make, and she must set
out at once. No, not quite at once. She clasped her hands to her beating
little heart as an idea came to her on which she might act. A delicious
and yet most sorrowful idea, which would fill her with the keenest pain,
and yet give her the very sweetest consolation. She would go and get a
kiss from her father before she set out on the search, which might be a
failure. Very swiftly she turned, flew down the long gallery which led
to Dr. Maybright's room, and went in.
Dr. Strong had paid his visit and gone away. Firefly's heart gave a
bound of delight, for her father was alone. He was lying supported high
in bed with pillows. His almost sightless eyes were not bandaged, they
were simply closed; his hands, with their long, sensitive, purposeful
fingers lay on the white sheets in a restful attitude. Already the acute
hearing of the blind had come to him, and as Firefly glided up to the
bedside, he turned his head quickly. Her two small hands went with a
kind of bound into one of his. His fingers closed over them.
"This is my Fly," said the Doctor; "a very excited and feverish Fly,
too. How these small fingers flutter! What is it, my darling?"
"A kiss, father," said Fly, "a great _hug_ of a kiss! please, please. I
want it so awfully badly."
"Climb up on the bed, and put your arms round me. Is that all right? My
dear little one, you are not well."
"I'm quite well, now, while I'm loving you. Oh! aren't you just the
darlingest of all darling fathers? There, another kiss; and another! Now
I'm better."
She glided off the bed, pressed two long, last fervent embraces on the
Doctor's white hand, and rushed out of the room.
"I'm lots stronger now," she said to herself. "_Whatever_ happens, I'll
have those kisses to hold on to and remember; but nothing shall happen,
for I'm going to find David; he is sure to put things right for me."
Meanwhile, Polly's absence from her room was accounted for, also the
fact of Fly finding her father alone. It was seldom that this dearly
loved and favorite father, physician, and friend, was left to indulge in
solitude. It was the privilege of all privileges to sit by him, read to
him, and listen to his talk; and a girl, generally two girls, occupied
the coveted chairs by his bedside. On this morning, however, poor Helen
was detained, first by Aunt Maria, and then by necessary housekeeping
cares; and Polly and Flower were deeply engrossed over a matter of
considerable importance.
When Polly had replied in the negative to Helen's question, she lingered
for a moment in the passage outside the morning-room, then started off
to find Nurse and little Pearl. Flower, however, waited with a feeling
of curiosity, or perhaps something more, to hear what the others would
say. She was witness, therefore, through the open door, of Firefly's
curious mixture of avowal and denial, and when Mrs. Cameron went away to
consult the doctor who attended Dr. Maybright, she coolly waited in an
adjoining room, and when the good woman returned, once more placed
herself within earshot. No Maybright would dream of eavesdropping, but
Flower's upbringing had been decidedly lax with regard to this and other
matters.
In full possession, therefore, of the facts of the catastrophe which was
to overpower poor little Fly and injure Dr. Maybright, she rushed off to
find Polly. Polly was feeling intensely happy, playing with and fondling
her sweet little baby sister, when Flower, pale and excited, rushed into
the room. Nurse, who had not yet forgiven Flower, turned her back upon
the young lady, and hummed audibly. Flower, however, was far too much
absorbed to heed her.
"Listen, Polly! you have got to come with me at once. Give baby back to
Nurse. You must come with me directly."
"If it is anything more about Scorpion, I refuse to stir," answered
Polly. "If there is a creature in this world whom I absolutely loathe,
it's that detestable little animal!"
"You don't hate him more than I do," said Flower. "My news is about him.
Still, you must come, for it also means Firefly and your father. They'll
both get into awful trouble--I know they will--if we don't save them."
"What?" said Polly; "what? Take baby, please, Nurse. Now, what is it,
Flower?" pulling her outside the nursery door. "What _has_ that horrid
Scorpion to do with Fly and father?"
"Only this: Fly has confessed that she knows what has become of him, but
she's a dear little brick and won't tell. She says she's a Maybright,
and they don't tell lies. Three cheers for the Maybrights, if they are
all like Fly, say I! Well, the little love won't tell, and Mrs. Cameron
is fit to dance, and what does she do but gets leave from Dr. Strong to
see your father, and she's going to drag Fly before him at three o'clock
to-day, and make a fine story of what happened. She holds it over Fly
that your father will be made very ill again. Very likely he will, if
_we_ don't prevent it."
"It's horrible!" said Polly; "but _how_ can we prevent it, Flower?"
"Oh, easily enough. _You_ must guard your father's room. Let no one in
under any pretense whatever until I have found David."
"What do you mean by finding David? What can David have to say to it?"
"Oh! has he not? Poor Fly! David has got her into his toils. David is at
the bottom of all this, I am convinced. I guessed it the moment I saw
him go up so boldly to Mrs. Cameron and pretend to be sorry about the
dog. _He_ sorry about Scorpion! He hates him more than any of us."
"But then--I don't understand; if that is so, David told a deliberate
lie, Flower."
Flower colored.
"We have not been brought up like the Maybrights," she said. "Oh, yes,
_we_ could tell a lie; we were not brought up to be particular about
good things, or to avoid bad things. We were brought up--well, just
anyhow."
Polly stole up to Flower and kissed her.
"I am glad you have come to learn of my father," she said. "Now do tell
me what we are to do for poor, poor Fly. Do you think David is guilty,
and that he has got Fly to promise not to tell?"
"Yes, that is what I think. David must be found, and got to confess, and
so release Fly of her promise before three o'clock. David is a dreadful
boy to find when he takes it into his head to hide on purpose; but I
must look for him, and in the meantime will you guard your father,
Polly?"
"As a dragon," said Polly. "You may trust me about that at least. I will
go to his room at once to make all things safe, for there is really no
trusting Aunt Maria when she has a scheme of vengeance with regard to
_that dog_ in her head. Good-by, Flower; I'm off to father."
Polly turned away, and Flower ran quickly downstairs. She knew she had
not a moment to lose, for David, as she expressed it, was a very
difficult boy to find when he took it into his head to hide himself.
Flower had not been on the moor since that dreadful day when she had
taken the baby away. So much had happened since then, so many dreadful
things had come to pass, that she shuddered at the bare thought of the
great and desolate moorland. Nevertheless she guessed that David would
hide there, and without a moment's hesitation turned her steps in the
direction of Peg-Top Moor. She had walked for nearly half an hour, and
had reached rather a broad extent of table-land, when she saw--their
little figures plainly visible against the sky--two children, nearly a
quarter of a mile away, eagerly talking together. There was not the
least doubt as to their identity; the children--a boy and a girl--were
David and Fly. Fly was holding David's arm, and gesticulating and
talking eagerly; David's head was turned away. Flower quickened her
steps almost into a run. If only she could reach the two before they
parted; above all things, if she could reach them before David saw her!
Alas and alas! she was too late for this. David suddenly pushed his
little companion a couple of feet away from him, and to all appearance
vanished into the solid ground.
Fly, crying bitterly, began to run to meet Flower. Flower held out her
arms as the little girl approached.
"What is it, Firefly? Tell me, has David confessed?"
"Oh, what do you know about it, Flower? Oh, what am I to do, what am I
to do?"
"You are to go quietly home," said Flower, speaking in a voice of
authority. "You are to go quietly home, and leave this matter in my
hands. I know all about it, and just what David has done. He has bound
you by a sort of oath, you poor little thing--you dear, brave little
thing! Never mind, Fly; you leave David to me. I expect I shall find him
now--that is, if you don't keep me too long talking. Go home, and leave
matters to me."
"But Flower--Flower, you do comfort me a little; but Flower, it will
soon be three o'clock, and then--and then--oh, dear father! Oh, it is
so dreadful!"
"No, you silly mite; it is not dreadful at all. Polly is in charge of
the Doctor. She is sitting with him now, and the door is locked, and the
key is in Polly's pocket, and she has promised me not to open that door
to any one--no, Fly, not to a hundred of your Aunt Marias--until I
bring David home."
Fly's face underwent a transformation. Her big eyes looked full up into
Flower's. A smile flitted across her quivering lips. With a sudden,
passionate gesture, she stooped down and kissed Flower's fingers, then
ran obediently back in the direction of Sleepy Hollow.
"She is a perfect little darling!" said Flower to herself. "If Master
David does not rue it for making her suffer, my name is not Flower
Dalrymple."
She ran on swiftly. She was always very quick and light in her
movements. Soon she came to the place where David had to all appearance
disappeared. She did not stay there long. She ran on to where the
bracken grew thick and long, then suddenly lay flat down on the ground,
and pressed her ear close to Mother Earth. What she heard did not
satisfy her. She rose again, repeating the same process several times.
Suddenly her eyes brightened; she raised her head, and listened
attentively, then she whistled a long peculiar note. There was no
answer, but Flower's face retained its watchful, intent expression. She
laid her head down once more close to the ground, and began to speak,
"David, David, I know you are there; there is no use in your hiding.
Come here, I want you, I, Flower. I will give you two minutes, David; if
you don't come then I'll keep the threat I made when you made me angry
with you at Ballarat."
A perfect silence followed Flower's words. She still lay flat on the
ground. One of the minutes flew by.
"I'll keep my word, David!" she said again. "You know me; you know what
my threat means. Three-quarters of a minute more, half a minute, then
I'll go home, and I'll do what I said I would do when you made me angry
at Ballarat."
Again there was silence, but this time quickly broken; a boy's black
head appeared above the bracken, a little brown hand was held out, and
David, without troubling himself to move a hair's breadth, looked full
into his sister's face.
"I don't want to lose you, Flower!" he said. "You are the only person in
all the world I care two-pence about. Now what's the row?"
"You're a cowardly boy, David, and I'm ashamed of you; come with me this
minute."
CHAPTER XVIII.
OH, FIE! POLLY.
While these events were taking place, and the children in their various
ways were preparing checkmate for Aunt Maria Cameron, that good lady
was having a by no means unexciting experience of her own. After her
housekeeping cares were over, after she had interviewed Mrs. Power, and
made Alice thoroughly uncomfortable; after, in short, meaning it all the
while for the best, she had succeeded in jarring the whole household
machinery to the utmost, it was her custom morning after morning to
retire with Scorpion into the seldom used drawing-room, and there,
seated comfortably in an old-fashioned arm-chair, with her feet well
supported on a large cushion, and the dog on her lap, to devote herself
to worsted work. Not crewel work, not church embroidery, not anything
which would admit of the use of modern art colors, but genuine,
old-fashioned worsted work. Mrs. Cameron delighted in the flaring
scarlets, pinks, greens, blues, and mauves of thirty years ago. She
admired with all her soul the hard, staring flowers which these colors
produced. They looked, she said, substantial and durable. They _looked_
like artificial flowers; nobody could mistake them for the real article,
which was occasionally known to be the case with that flimsy, in her
opinion, ugly, art embroidery. No, no, Mrs. Cameron would not be smitten
by the art craze. "Let nature _be_ nature!" she would say, "and worsted
work be worsted work, and don't let us try to clash the poor things into
one, as that wretched art-school is always endeavoring to do." So each
morning Mrs. Cameron plied her worsted needle, and Scorpion slumbered
peacefully on her knee. She liked to sit with her back to the light, so
that it should fall comfortably on her work, and her own eyes be
protected from an extensive and very beautiful view of the south moor.
Mrs. Cameron hated the moor; it gave her, as she expressed it, "the
creeps," and on all occasions she avoided looking at it. On this
morning, as usual, she took out her large roll of worsted work, and
prepared to ground a huge, impossible arum lily. Her thoughts, however,
were not, as usual, with her work. Her cheeks were flushed, and her
whole face expressed annoyance and anxiety.
"How I miss even his dear little playful bite!" she said aloud, a big
tear falling on her empty lap. "Ah, my Scorpion! why did I love you, but
to lose you? How true are the poet's words:
'I never loved a dear gazelle.'
Well, I must say it, I seldom came across more wicked, heartless
children than the Maybrights and Daisy Rymple. David is really the only
one of the bunch worth rearing. Ah, my poor sister! your removal has
doubtless spared you many sorrows, for what could you expect of the
future of such a family as yours? Now, what is that? This moor is enough
to keep anybody's nerves in a state of tension. What _is_ that awful
sound approaching the house?"
The noise in question was the unmistakable one of a woman's loud
sobbing. It came nearer and nearer, gaining in fullness and volume as it
approached the house.
Mrs. Cameron was always intensely curious. She threw open the
drawing-room window; and as the sufferer approached, effectually stopped
her progress with her own stout person.
"Now, my dear, good creature, what is this most unpleasant sound? Don't
you know that it is frightfully bad-mannered to cry in that loud,
unrestrained fashion? Pray restrain yourself. You are quite childish.
You cannot know what real affliction means. Now, if you had lost
a--a---- If, my poor woman, you had lost a dear little dog!"
"Is it a dog?" gasped Mrs. Ricketts, for it was she. "Is it a dog? Oh,
my word! Much you know about 'flictions and such-like! Let me go to the
house, ma'am. It isn't to you as I has come to tell my tale."
"Then let me inform you that you are going to tell it to no one else.
Here I stand, and here I remain until you choose to explain to me the
reason of your loud bursts of uncontrollable grief. During the illness
of its master I am the mistress here, and either you speak to me or you
go home."
Mrs. Ricketts had by this time so far restrained her sobs as to be able
to take a long and very acute glance at the lady in question. Doubtless
she was face to face with the formidable Mrs. Cameron, that terrible
personage who had got her Maggie dismissed, and who had locked up poor
darling Miss Polly for days in her bedroom.
There was no one, perhaps, in the world whom Mrs. Ricketts more
cordially disliked than this good lady, but all the same, it was now her
policy to propitiate her. She smoothed, therefore, her brow, dried her
eyes, and, with a profound courtesy, began her tale.
"Ef you please, ma'am, it's this way; it's my character that's at stake.
I always was, and always will be, honest of the honest. 'Ard I works,
ma'am, and the bread of poverty I eats, but honest I am, and honest I
brings up those fatherless lambs, my children."
Mrs. Cameron waved one of her fat hands impressively.
"Pardon me, my good woman. I am really not interested in your family.
Pray come to the point, and then go home."
"To the p'int, ma'am? Oh, yes, I'll come to the p'int. This is the p'int
ef you please, ma'am," and she suddenly thrust, almost into Mrs.
Cameron's dazzled face, the splendid gleam and glitter of a large unset
diamond. "This is the p'int, ma'am; this is what's to take my character
away, and the bread out of the mouths of my innocent children."
Mrs. Cameron never considered herself a worldly woman. She was
undoubtedly a very Christian-minded, charitable, good woman, but all the
same, she loved fine houses and big dinners and rich apparel, and above
all things she adored jewelry. Flowers--that is, natural flowers--had
never yet drawn a smile out of her. She had never pined for them or
valued them, but jewels, ah! they were worth possessing. She quite
gasped now, as she realized the value of the gem which Mrs. Ricketts so
unceremoniously thrust under her nose.
"A diamond! Good gracious! How did you come by it? A most valuable
diamond of extraordinary size. Give it to me this moment, my good dear
creature! and come into the drawing-room. You can step in by this open
window. We won't be disturbed in here. I suppose you were weeping in
that loud and violent manner at the thought of the grief of the person
who had lost this treasure?"
"No, ma'am, I were a sobbing at the grief of her what _'ad_ it. Oh, my
word! And the young lady said for sure as I'd get nine-and-fourpence
halfpenny for it. No, ma'am, I won't go into the 'ouse, thank you. Oh,
dear! oh, dear! the young lady did set store by it, and said for certain
I'd get my nine-and-fourpence halfpenny back, but when I took the stone
to the shop to-day, and asked the baker to give me some bread and let
this go partly to pay the account, he stared at me and said as I wasn't
honest, and he thrust it back in my hand. Oh, dearie me! oh, dearie me!
the foreign young lady shouldn't have done it!"
"_I_ am very sure that you're honest, my good creature! Now, do tell me
about this stone. How did you come by it?"
"It was the young lady, ma'am; the young lady from Australia."
"Daisy Rymple, do you mean?"
"Miss Flower she called herself, ma'am. She come to me in sore plight
late one evening, when we was all in bed, and 'Mrs. Ricketts,' said she,
dear lamb, 'will you help me to go away to Mrs. Cameron, to Bath? I want
the money to go third class to Bath. Can you let me have nine shillings
and fourpence halfpenny, Mrs. Ricketts? and I'll give you this for the
money!' and she flashed that bit of a glittering stone right up into my
eyes. My word, I thought as I was blinded by it. 'You'll get most like
two pounds for it, Mrs. Ricketts,' she said, 'for my father told me it
was worth a sight of money.' That's how I come by it, ma'am, and that's
the way I was treated about it to-day."
Mrs. Cameron slowly drew out her purse.
"I will give you two sovereigns for the stone!" she said. "There, take
them and go home, and say nothing about the money. It will be the worse
for you if you do; now go quickly home."
Mrs. Ricketts' broad face was one glow of delight. She dropped another
courtesy, and tried to articulate some words of thanks, but Mrs. Cameron
had already disappeared into the drawing-room, where she now sat,
holding the diamond in the palm of her open hand.
She knew enough about precious stones to guess at something of its
probable value. The idea of in this way possessing herself of Flower's
diamond never for a moment entered her head, but she was worldly-minded
enough to wish that it could be her own, and she could not help owning
to a feeling of satisfaction, even to a sense of compensation for the
loss of Scorpion, while she held the beautiful glittering thing in her
open palm.
Even Flower rose in her estimation when she found that she had possessed
a gem so brilliant. A girl who could have such a treasure and so lightly
part with it was undoubtedly a simpleton--but she was a simpleton who
ought to be guarded and prized--the sort of young innocent who should
be surrounded by protecting friends. Mrs. Cameron felt her interest in
Flower growing and growing. Suppose she offered to release the Doctor of
this wearisome burden. Suppose she undertook the care of Flower and her
diamond herself.
No sooner did this thought occur to Mrs. Cameron, than she resolved to
act upon it. Of course the Doctor would be delighted to part with
Flower. She would see him on the subject at once.
She went slowly upstairs and knocked with a calm, steady hand at the
door of the dressing-room which opened into Dr. Maybright's apartment.
No sound or reply of any kind came from within. She listened for a
moment, then knocked again, then tried to turn the handle of the door.
It resisted her pressure, being locked from within.
Mrs. Cameron raised her voice. She was not a person who liked to be
opposed, and that locked door, joined to that most exasperating silence,
became more than trying. Surely the Doctor was not deaf as well as
blind. Surely he must hear her loud demands, even though a dressing-room
stood between his room and the suppliant without.
And surely the Doctor would have heard, for a more polite man never
lived, were it not for that all mischievous and irrepressible Polly. But
she, being left in charge, had set her sharp brains to work, and had
devised a plan to outwit Mrs. Cameron. The dressing-room in question
contained a double baize door. This door was seldom or never used, but
it came in very conveniently now, for the furtherance of Polly's plan.
When it was shut, and thick curtains also drawn across, and when, in
addition, the door leading into Dr. Maybright's room was securely
fastened and curtained off, Polly felt sure that she and her father
might pass their morning in delicious quietude. Not hearing Mrs.
Cameron, she argued with herself that no one _could_ possibly blame her
for not letting her in. Therefore, in high good humor, this young lady
sat down to read, work, and chatter gayly. As the Doctor listened, he
said to himself that surely there never was in the world a sweeter or
more agreeable companion than his Polly.
With all her precautions, however, as the hours flew by, sundry muffled
and distant sounds did penetrate to the sick chamber.
"What a peculiar noise!" remarked the Doctor.
"Can it be mice?" queried Polly's _most_ innocent voice.
More time passed.
Suddenly the sharp and unmistakable sound of gravel being flung against
the window forced the young lady to go to ascertain what was the matter.
On looking out, she saw what caused her to utter an amazed exclamation.
Mrs. Cameron, very red in the face, and holding the lost Scorpion in one
encircling arm, while the other was thrown firmly round a most
sulky-looking David; Firefly, pale and with traces of tears on her face;
Flower, looking excited and eager--all stood under the window. This
group were loud in demanding instant admission to the Doctor's room.
"What is it, what is it?" questioned the patient from the bed.
"Oh, you are _not_ strong enough to see them, father."
"To see whom?"
"Aunt Maria--Scorpion--the children."
"Yes, I am quite strong enough. Let them come up at once."
"But father!"
"But Polly! You don't suppose seriously that your Aunt Maria can disturb
my equanimity?"
"Oh! She will worry you with so many tales."
"About my very naughty family?"
"Yes, yes; you had much better not see her."
"Because she wants me to get a chaperon for you?"
"Oh! yes--oh! don't see her."
"My dear, you can trust me; you happen to be _my_ children, not hers. I
would rather have the matter out. I knew there was something wrong from
the way little Fly kissed my hand this morning. Show the deputation
outside the window into the audience chamber at once, Polly."
So admonished, the curtains had to be drawn back, the baize door
reopened, and Polly--a most unwilling hostess--had to receive her
guests. But no words can describe the babel of sounds which there and
then filled the Doctor's room; no words can tell how patiently the blind
man listened.
Aunt Maria had a good tale to tell, and it lost nothing in the telling.
The story of Scorpion's disappearance; of the wickedness of David and
Fly; of the recovering of the little animal from the man who had bought
it, through Flower's instrumentality; all this she told, following up
with the full and particular history of the sale of a valuable diamond.
At last--at long last--the good lady stopped for want of breath.
There was a delicious pause, then the Doctor said, quietly:
"In short, Maria, you have never come across such absolutely wicked
children as the Maybrights and Dalrymples?"
"No, Andrew--never! never!"
"It is lucky they are not your children?"
"Thank Heaven!"
"Would it not be well to leave them to me? I am accustomed to them."
"Yes; I wash my hands of you all; or no--not quite of you all--I heap
coals of fire on your head, Andrew; I offer to relieve you of the charge
of Daisy Rymple."
"Of Flower?--but she is one of the worst of us."
Here Flower ran over, crouched down by the Doctor, and put one of her
hands into his.
"But I will be good with you," she said with a half-sob.
"Hear her," said the Doctor. "She says she will be good with me.
Perhaps, after all, Maria, I _can_ manage my own children better than
any one else can."
"Daisy is not your child--you had better give her to me."
"I can't part with Flower; she is an excellent reader. I am a blind man,
but she scarcely allows me to miss my eyes."
Flower gave a low ecstatic sob.
"And you will allow her to part with valuable gems like this?"
"Thanks to you, Maria, she has recovered her diamond."
"Andrew, I never met such an obstinate, such a misguided man! Are you
really going to bring up these unfortunate children without a chaperon?"
"I think you must allow us to be good _and_ naughty in our own way."
"Father is looking very tired, Aunt Maria," here whispered Polly.
"My dear, _I_ am never going to fatigue him more. Andrew, I wash my
hands of your affairs. Daisy, take your diamond. At least, my little
precious dog, I have recovered _you_. We return to Bath by the next
train."
CHAPTER XIX.
ONE YEAR AFTER.
"Helen, here's a letter."
"Yes. Who is it for?"
"I think it's for us all. See: 'the Misses Maybright and Miss
Dalrymple.'"
"Well, where's Flower? We can't open it till Flower comes down. It must
be--yes, it must be about father! You know it was yesterday his eyes
were to be operated on."
"As if I didn't know it, Nell! I never closed my eyes last night. I felt
nearly as bad as that awful day a year ago now. I wish I might tear open
this envelope. Where is Flower? Need we wait for her?"
"It would be unkind not to wait! No one feels about father as Flower
does."
"David, please call her this instant!"
David flew out of the room, and Polly began to finger the precious
letter.
"It's thick," she said; "but I don't think there's much writing inside.
Yes," she continued, "Flower is certainly very sensitive about father.
She's a dear girl. All the same, I'm sometimes jealous of her."
"Oh, dear Polly! why?"
"Father thinks so much of her. Yes, I know it's wrong, but I do feel a
little sore now and then. Not often though, and never when I look into
Flower's lovely eyes."
"She is very sweet with father," said Helen. "It seems to me that during
this past year she has given up her very life to him. And did you ever
hear any one read better?"
"No, that's one of the reasons why I'm devoured with jealousy. Don't
talk to me about it, it's an enemy I haven't yet learnt to overcome. Ah!
here she comes."
"_And_ Fly, _and_ the twins!" echoed Helen. "Here's a letter from
father, Flower. At least, we think so. It's directed to us and to you."
A tall, very fair girl, with soft, shining eyes, and a wonderful mane of
yellow hair came up and put her arm round Polly's neck. She did not
smile, her face was grave, her voice shook a little.
"Open the letter, Helen," she exclaimed impatiently.
"Don't tremble so, Flower," said Polly.
But she herself only remained quiet by a great effort, as Helen
unfastened the thick envelope, opened the sheet of paper, and held it up
for many eager pairs of eyes to read:
"My Children:--I see again, thank God.
"Your Father and loving Friend."
"There!" said Polly. "Oh, I can't talk about it. Flower, you are silly
to cry. Will no one dance a hornpipe with me? I'll choke if I don't
laugh. You're the one to dance, Fly. Why, you are crying, too.
Ridiculous! Where's the letter? Let's kiss it all round. That'll make us
better. His own blessed writing! Isn't he a darling? Was there ever such
a father?"
"Or such a friend?" exclaimed Flower. "I said long ago, and I say again
now, that he's the best man in the world, and I do really think that
some day he'll turn me into a good girl."
"Why, you're the nicest girl I know now," said Polly.
And then they kissed each other.
THE END
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Transcriber's Notes
-------------------
1. Punctuation has been normalized to contemporary standards.
2. Frontispiece relocated to after title page.
3. Typographic errors corrected in original:
p. 7 aways to always ("always did think")
p. 8 breat-and-butter to bread-and-butter
p. 102 nuseries to nurseries ("to the nurseries")
p. 154 by to my ("jealous of my influence")
p. 159 life to like ("looked like artificial flowers")