POLLYOOLY PLAYS HER FAVOURITE PART
At half-past eight Eglantine, already bubbling, in spite of the
earliness of the hour, with excited animation, awoke Pollyooly and
pulled up the blind of the bedroom window.
Then she cried:
"'E ees 'ere! Queek! Queek! Coom to ze window! Let 'im see you!"
Pollyooly jumped out of bed and ran to the window. The detective stood
on the lawn regarding the house gloomily. At the sight of her face he
beamed sleepily.
Eglantine laughed and cried:
"Good! Now 'e zinks you are 'ere! But you must eat your breakfast
queek, and be ready to run fast into ze wood when ze lawyer coom!"
Pollyooly bathed and dressed quickly, putting on a dark frock that she
might be less visible in the thickets. Then she came briskly
down-stairs and made an excellent breakfast.
She was just finishing it when Eglantine, on the watch at the window,
cried:
"'Ere is ze lawyer! You must fly! Oh, but queek!"
Pollyooly seized a cap and the packet of sandwiches which lay ready to
hand, and as she put on the cap she saw the lawyer, a middle-aged, but
stout gentleman, conferring with the detective and smiling triumphantly
and rubbing his hands at the news of her presence in the house. She
smiled too--a smile of pleasant anticipation. But then, as the lawyer
walked to the front door, the detective walked briskly to the back, and
she frowned.
"Oh, bothaire! What are we to do?" cried Eglantine.
"Isn't there a window I could get out of?" said Pollyooly quickly.
"But yes! Coom quick!" cried Eglantine, running out of the room.
Pollyooly hurried after her; and there came the loud rat-tat of the
lawyer at the front door. They ran into the drawing-room and Eglantine
opened the window gently. The detective knocked at the back door; the
lawyer knocked again, louder. Pollyooly leaned out of the window,
weighing her chances. She saw that to get to the little gate into the
wood she would have to pass the detective. But on her left, in the
fence of the wood, was a gap which had been filled by a post and rails.
Though it would bring her in sight of the lawyer at the front door,
that seemed the safer way, since he was stouter, and probably less
swift of foot than the detective. She climbed out of the window and
made a dash for it. She reached the fence, went over it like a cat;
and her foot already touched the ground on the other side as the lawyer
saw her, and in his indignation and surprise howled like a skelped
hound.
He was more used to office work than action; and it was fully five
seconds before he started for the wood. In those five seconds
Pollyooly had gone a good thirty yards into it. He rushed for the post
and rails, and climbed them with his eyes nearly starting out of his
head in his anxiety to see her. Then, instead of trying to hear in
which direction she was moving, he stood on the fence and bellowed to
the detective to come to him.
The detective, tired by his night watch, was slow in grasping what had
happened. By the time he had reached the lawyer, had learned that
Pollyooly had taken to the woods, and was himself over the fence, many
valuable seconds had been lost; and Pollyooly, who had turned sharply
to the left, was sixty yards down the wood, moving noiselessly, out of
hearing.
She threaded the mazes of the wood swiftly, with straining ears,
marking the loud rustling of her pursuers in the undergrowth. It grew
fainter and fainter, for they plunged on straight ahead of them; and
then it died quite away. She went on slowly, enjoying the wood, the
fragrance of the flowers, and the song of the birds in the sun-flecked
glades.
About twenty minutes later she heard again the rustling of her
pursuers, faint and far away, but drawing nearer. She moved along
before it, and came to a gate opening into a leafy lane. Below, about
a mile away, lay the town of Budleigh Salterton, and the sea, shining
in the sun.
She climbed on to the gate to get a better view (she had time enough),
her active brain working swiftly. She perceived that there were even
pleasanter ways of spending a summer's day in Devonshire than playing
hide-and-seek in a wood with a lawyer and a detective. Then she cast
one look back into the green depths of the wood, slipped over the gate,
and bolted down the lane as hard as she could run. Her only task had
been to keep the lawyer and the detective busy during the morning; and
she thought that the wood might be trusted to keep them busy without
any help from her. Eight minutes later she arrived, panting, in the
High Street of the town, slowed down, and strolled to the beach.
But the lawyer and the detective ranged the wood like questing hounds.
As she came on to the esplanade a very large gentleman in grey flannel
was so impressed by her flower-like, angel face that, without pausing
to cast about for an introduction, he entered into conversation with
her. She was very affable with him, but not wholly open; for after a
while she left him under the impression that, so far from being an
orphan, she was staying with her parents in lodgings in the station
road. But she bore away from their colloquy a pleasing shilling with
which he had invited her to buy chocolate.
She walked along the esplanade somewhat disappointed that the beach
should all of it be large pebbles. She had always believed the shore
of the sea to be sand. She did not, however, repine, but walked along
to the end of it, watching the bathers and the playing children, in a
great content. Then she went down the path beyond the esplanade,
between the sea and marshes, to the mouth of the swift-flowing Otter.
She walked out over the slippery rocks to the edge of the ebbing sea,
and finding some children paddling about in a pool, joined them.
And still the lawyer and the detective ranged the wood like questing
hounds.
The pleasant feel of the warm salt water on her legs inspired Pollyooly
with larger desires. She put on her shoes and stockings and came back
to the esplanade. She soon learned that a bathing-dress and a
bathing-machine could be hired. She hired them and bathed. She bathed
for a long time, a longer time than was good for her.
And still the lawyer and the detective ranged the wood like questing
hounds.
At last she tore herself from the water, dressed, and lay on the warm
pebbles, drying her beautiful red hair in the sun. The church clock
struck twelve; slowly, but with a good appetite, she ate her
sandwiches--chicken sandwiches.
And still the lawyer and the detective ranged the wood like questing
hounds.
After her lunch Pollyooly bought herself a bottle of lemonade at a
confectioner's shop in the High Street; then once more she sought the
mouth of the Otter. There, hunting among the rocks, paddling, watching
the sea-gulls on the red cliffs beyond the stream, she enjoyed herself
greatly. It is to be doubted that a happier child could have been
found out of London.
The lawyer and the detective no longer ranged the wood like questing
hounds. They had already done all the ranging the weather permitted.
Moreover, the lawyer was not of sleuth-hound build, and the chase had
reddened his face almost to the colour of the carapace of a boiled
lobster. Unfortunately his face was not of the durable texture of a
carapace; and the skin was peeling off his nose.
They had returned to the pretty garden from which they had started on
their quest; and the detective had gone into the town to get the food
he needed so badly and to bring back lunch for the lawyer. The lawyer
sat on a bench, awaiting his return impatiently. Searching the wood
like a questing hound had given him also a fine appetite.
It was soon after two o'clock that Pollyooly made the acquaintance of
the boy Edward, or the boy Edward made the acquaintance of Pollyooly.
It is difficult to be sure how these things happened. But both of them
were lonely; Pollyooly was of far too simple and direct a nature to be
much hampered by the cold conventions of a sophisticated civilisation;
and Edward was but ten.
For all his extreme youth, he was an agreeable companion; and so it
came about that Pollyooly, who had meant to return to the house at
three o'clock, was detained by Edward and the sea till half-past four.
She was not loth to be detained; she was indeed pleased to be giving
the duchess her full measure of hours, and the lawyer and detective a
really good run for their money.
But as a matter of fact they did no running at all that afternoon. At
three o'clock the replete detective returned with the lunch of the
raging lawyer. From half-past three till four they prowled gently
about the wood; at four they returned to the garden and sat on a bench
in the garden, confident that their quarry must very soon return for
food.
At four o'clock a flaming Eglantine came out of the house and accused
them furiously of having murdered Lady Marion Ricksborough in the wood.
It took them nearly twenty minutes to persuade her that they had not.
They found it hard work; and doubted even then that they had wholly
succeeded.
At half-past four Pollyooly said good-bye to the regretful Edward at
the end of the High Street, whither he had accompanied her. She did
not hurry up the hill, but as she went picked flowers to adorn the
Honourable John Ruffin's chambers. When she did come into the garden,
her eyes fell at once on the lawyer and the detective. They slept on
the bench. The lawyer's head rested affably on the detective's
shoulder. He looked not only redder but thinner, as if his quest in
the warm wood had shrunk him a little.
[Illustration: They slept on the bench]
Pollyooly did not awaken them; she went quietly into the house, and was
welcomed by Eglantine with kisses and reproaches for the fright she had
given her by her delay. Though in the end persuaded that she had not
been murdered by the lawyer and the detective, she had begun to fear
lest she were lost in the wood. She received Pollyooly's account of
the pleasant day she had spent with many expressions of pleased
amazement; and then she gave her a noble tea.
Pollyooly was coming to the end of it, listening with an agreeable show
of interest to the further details of Eglantine's affair of the heart
with the landed proprietor of the market-garden, when they were both
startled by a loud snort at the window. The lawyer and the detective
were looking in upon them, their faces beaming with satisfaction at the
sight of their quarry. The detective guarded the window while the
lawyer sprang lithely round the house, through the front door, and into
the room.
"Thank goodness! I've caught your ladyship at last!" he cried.
Pollyooly scowled at him and said nothing. It was her habit in the
part of Lady Marion Ricksborough to give herself airs. He snatched his
watch from his pocket and cried:
"Oh, hang it! We've missed the last train to London!"
Pollyooly smiled coldly.
"Well, we must spend the night at the hotel," he said grumpily. "If I
left your ladyship here, there's no saying when I should see you again."
Pollyooly scowled again, and Eglantine burst into loud and excited
protest:
"Her ladyship must sleep in the house--in her own bed--properly."
The lawyer paid no heed to her protest, but bade her pack her young
mistress's clothes at once. He said that the sooner she was at the
hotel, the safer he would feel. He did not get his way without further
and louder protests from Eglantine; but in the end he got it. She
packed the little kit-bag for Pollyooly with clothes of Lady Marion.
The detective carried it. As they were starting she gave Pollyooly two
sovereigns wrapped up in a five-pound note, saying that the duchess had
left it for her. The extra two sovereigns were for expenses, since she
might need money to escape.
The sum warmed Pollyooly's heart.
She bade Eglantine an affectionate farewell and invited her to come to
see her whenever she was in London. Then she set out with her captors.
On the way down the hill the lawyer was very respectful and agreeable
to Pollyooly, proclaiming his eager desire to secure her welfare, and
dwelling on the pleasure she must be feeling at the prospect of being
re-united with her affectionate father, the duke. No such prospect lay
before her; and she displayed no interest in the matter. But when the
lawyer, with a fatherly solicitude of his own, suggested that it would
be safer if he took care of her money for her, she rejected the
proposal with an uncommon, haughty curtness. He seemed somewhat hurt,
but he did not press the matter. The detective addressed him as Mr.
Wilkinson.
Pollyooly was not pleased to leave the pleasant and comfortable house
of the duchess and its so noble breakfasts and teas, though it was some
consolation that she was moving from it to an hotel where, in her
ignorance of provincial England, she supposed that she would fare
luxuriously. She was much less pleased to exchange the society of the
lively Eglantine, so full of interesting confidences, for that of the
ponderous and doubtless uncommunicative Mr. Wilkinson.
He was fully alive to his importance as being in charge of the daughter
of a duke, and did not dream for a moment of putting her into the care
of the detective. Indeed, in spite of his greater experience in taking
charge of people, that worthy fellow was far too sleepy to be trusted
with so elusive a child.
Mr. Wilkinson was far more affable and urbane with her than any one
whom Pollyooly had ever met. He was careful to ask her whether she
disliked the smell of tobacco smoke before taking her into the
smoking-room, where he made a light meal on whiskey and soda and
biscuits. He invited her to share his biscuits; but the noble tea was
so recent that she was forced to decline.
As soon as he had finished it he accepted, with the readiest urbanity,
her suggestion that they should go out on the sea-front. It was
exceedingly gratifying to him to be seen walking hand in hand with the
daughter of a duke. But his hand was hot and moist, and at the end of
fifty yards of it Pollyooly withdrew hers from it with considerable
decision.
"I'm not going to run away--to-day," she said firmly, putting it behind
her back.
Mr. Wilkinson protested feebly; but since there seemed no likelihood of
his recovering the hand, in the end he accepted the situation, saying
pompously:
"I accept your ladyship's assurance that you will not try to escape."
"Not to-day," said Pollyooly haughtily; and she looked at him darkly.
"Oh, to-morrow you will be with his grace, and my responsibility ends,"
said Mr. Wilkinson in a tone of some satisfaction.
Pollyooly did not think that she would be with his grace on the morrow;
but she did not say so.
Presently they sat down on a seat; and under the influence of the
slight meal of which he had recently partaken, Mr. Wilkinson grew
drowsily eloquent about the inestimable privilege she was about to
enjoy of once more sharing her father's ducal home. But since the duke
was not her father, and she had no intention whatever of sharing his
ducal home, again the subject did not really interest her.
They returned to the hotel to dine; and since, while she was preparing
for it, Mr. Wilkinson informed the manager of what he believed to be
her rank and romantic history, during the meal she enjoyed a fine sense
of self-importance, as the other guests stared at her--frequently with
their mouths full.
Their interest compelled her to exercise her best manners; that she did
not mind; but she did mind wasting the beautiful evening over a long
dinner of no interest to her. In view of the fact that she had so
lately eaten that noble tea, the earlier courses could hardly be
expected to interest her; but the sweets to which she had been looking
forward proved of a most disappointing, though painstaking, insipidity;
and she was indeed glad when the meal came to an end.
Mr. Wilkinson talked affably, though with a touch of condescension not
unnatural in one in charge of the daughter of a duke, to a colonel and
golfer from Scotland, about the political situation. Pollyooly did not
realise how much their deference to his opinions, drawn from that
morning's _Daily Mail_, which both of them had read, was due to her
presence beside him. After dinner they returned to the bench on the
esplanade; and Pollyooly, for the first time in her life, had the
opportunity of learning how sentimental, after a bottle of champagne, a
middle-aged man can become about the moon. She gathered that he was
deeply attached to a lady named Myra.
At half-past nine they returned to the hotel; and when she went to bed
Mr. Wilkinson thoughtfully locked her in.
She slept well and rose early. The sea, smiling in the morning sun,
attracted her greatly; and it seemed good to her to bathe. In view of
the rank she was enjoying, it also seemed to her that she might very
well have her way in the matter. She dressed quickly, and with the
heel of her own stout shoe, a stouter shoe than Lady Marion ever wore,
she began to hammer on her bedroom door.
She had not hammered long before an eager, respectful chambermaid came
and asked her what she wanted. When she learned she hurried off to Mr.
Wilkinson and awoke him. Mr. Wilkinson, desiring to sleep yet another
hour, would not hear of any bathing. On learning this, Pollyooly
hammered on the door yet more loudly than before with the heels of her
two stout shoes. The chambermaid summoned the manager; both of them
betook themselves to Mr. Wilkinson, and anxiously informed him that her
young ladyship was awaking the whole hotel. Mr. Wilkinson, as angry as
he could be with the daughter of so distinguished a client, was on the
point of rising, when he had a happy thought. He bade the manager
rouse the detective and tell him to take her young ladyship to bathe,
and to look after her very carefully indeed.
The detective, also desiring to sleep yet another hour, rose gloomily
and gloomily escorted Pollyooly to the sea. His gloom did not at all
lessen Pollyooly's enjoyment of her bath and she spent the pleasantest
half-hour in the sea. She graciously suffered the detective to pay for
it.
She returned to the hotel with a glorious appetite and made a glorious
breakfast. Mr. Wilkinson congratulated her on the healthiness of her
appetite, with a somewhat envious air. It seemed to her that the hotel
was more attractive in the matter of breakfasts than of dinners.
At a few minutes to eleven they started to walk to the station.
Remembering that her parole only covered the day before, Mr. Wilkinson
set her between himself and the detective. Pollyooly had not forgotten
the Honourable John Ruffin's urgent instruction that she should wire
him the time of the arrival of their train at Waterloo, and she learned
from Mr. Wilkinson that it was three twenty-five. When, therefore,
they reached the post office, she made a sudden dash across the road
into it.
Mr. Wilkinson and the detective bustled after her and found her writing
the telegram. It ran:
I arrive at three twenty-five. Pollyooly.
It puzzled them a little; and Mr. Wilkinson said:
"Why do you telegraph to Mr. Ruffin?"
"Because he told me to," said Pollyooly.
"He told you to?" said Mr. Wilkinson with a puzzled air. "When did he
tell you to?"
"The day before yesterday," said Pollyooly.
Mr. Wilkinson shook his head with a pained air. He thought that her
ladyship was fibbing.
"Why do you sign it 'Pollyooly'?" he said.
"Because it's my name," said Pollyooly.
Mr. Wilkinson shook his head with a yet sadder air. Had she been the
daughter of a commoner, he would not have let her send the telegram; as
it was he did. Half-way to the station he had grown yet more curious
about it; and he asked her again why she had sent it.
"You'll know all about it when we get to London," said Pollyooly coldly.
He could get no more from her.
They lunched on the train, and under the expanding influence of a small
bottle of champagne, the air of Mr. Wilkinson grew more and more
triumphant at the success of his difficult mission.
When they descended from the train he clasped Pollyooly's right hand
firmly, the detective clasped her left, and they walked down the
platform. They had not gone thirty yards when they met the Honourable
John Ruffin smiling agreeably.
"Hullo, Wilkinson! How are you?" he said cheerfully.
"How are you, Mr. Ruffin? At last we've found her little ladyship, and
we're taking her to his grace. He will be pleased," said Mr. Wilkinson
in tones of ringing triumph.
"Will he? Where is she?" said the Honourable John Ruffin with an air
of lively curiosity.
"Here," said Mr. Wilkinson, drawing Pollyooly forward.
"Where?" said the Honourable John Ruffin, looking at Pollyooly with a
somewhat puzzled air.
"Here!" said Mr. Wilkinson a little louder.
"Oh--_there_?" said the Honourable John Ruffin. "How are you,
Pollyooly? I hope you had a pleasant time with Eglantine. But why
have you come back so soon? I didn't expect you for some days."
"It was Mr. Wilkinson. He made me. He almost dragged me to his
hotel," said Pollyooly.
"Oh, come, Wilkinson: this won't do, you know. This is kidnapping, you
know--high-handed kidnapping," said the Honourable John Ruffin
indignantly. "What do you think you're doing?"
"I'm taking her to the duke," said Mr. Wilkinson.
"And do you suppose that Osterley will be pleased at your bringing him
my housekeeper, Wilkinson? On the last occasion, when he did the
kidnapping and took her home himself, he seemed very far from pleased."
The puzzled look had shifted from the Honourable John Ruffin's face to
that of Mr. Wilkinson, and he said sharply:
"What do you mean?"
"I mean what I say," said the Honourable John Ruffin firmly. "I find
you dragging my housekeeper, Mary Bride, along the platform of Waterloo
Station, by main force, and with the help of a tall, strong man."
"I don't know what you are talking about!" cried Mr. Wilkinson
stormily. "And if you'll forgive my saying so, I haven't any time to
waste on your jokes, Mr. Ruffin!"
"Joke? Do you want me to show you how much of a joke it is by giving
you in charge here and now for kidnapping my housekeeper, Mary Bride?"
said the Honourable John Ruffin coldly.
Mr. Wilkinson's expression grew yet more puzzled and doubtful, and he
said:
"Mary Bride? Who is Mary Bride?"
"Now what's the good of a subterfuge of this kind when you're holding
her by the hand, Wilkinson? You should keep such tricks for maiden
ladies!" cried the Honourable John Ruffin with a fine show of
indignation.
"This is Lady Marion Ricksborough!" cried Wilkinson; but his tone
lacked conviction.
"It isn't. It's my housekeeper, Mary Bride. I wonder that a man of
your knowledge of the world did not see at once that you were
kidnapping the wrong person," said the Honourable John Ruffin; and
_his_ tone was full of conviction.
"I'm not Lady Marion, and I never said I was. It was you who said so.
I am Mr. Ruffin's housekeeper, Mary Bride," said Pollyooly very firmly.
"B-b-b-but I've been c-c-c-calling her Lady Marion all the t-t-t-time,
and she never p-p-p-protested once!" cried Mr. Wilkinson, gazing wildly
at Pollyooly.
"Then all I can say is, you must have frightened the life out of her,"
said the Honourable John Ruffin indignantly. "And it will look
bad--devilish bad--a man of your age kidnapping a child of twelve and
frightening her to such an extent that she was afraid to tell you who
she really was. Look here, am I to give you in charge here and now,
and thresh the matter out in a police court? That will please
Osterley!"
"Hold on a bit--hold on a bit," said Mr. Wilkinson faintly. "You're
really not joking?"
"Certainly not," said the Honourable John Ruffin.
"Let's go into a waiting-room and talk it over quietly. We don't want
to make any silly mistakes," said Mr. Wilkinson yet more faintly.
"I should think you didn't! You've made enough already," said the
Honourable John Ruffin frankly. "But you'd better come along to my
chambers. I've got Mary Bride's little brother there and a woman who
has known her all her life. If you can't take my word for it, she'll
convince you all right."
Mr. Wilkinson was very limp in the taxicab: he perceived that he had
allowed his enthusiasm to carry him away with the result that he had
been hopelessly duped. It was indeed mortifying, the more mortifying
that he could not blame any one but himself--himself and nature. The
more carefully he examined Pollyooly the more impressed he was by her
likeness to Lady Marion Ricksborough. The detective was gloomy; he had
lost a night's rest for nothing, as well as his hope of forthwith
receiving the reward for the capture of the missing child, for it was
he who had tracked her to the house in Devon. Now he might be months
recovering her trail.
The Honourable John Ruffin on the other hand was in excellent spirits.
He had no desire to embroil himself with his cousin, by definitely
taking the side of the duchess in their quarrel; and he began to see
plainly that the matter would never come to the duke's ears. Neither
the lawyer nor the detective would talk about it; they both cut too
ridiculous a figure.
At 75 the King's Bench Walk, they found Mrs. Brown and the Lump. Mr.
Wilkinson needed no more evidence than the warmth with which Pollyooly
kissed and hugged her little brother; but none the less he received
Mrs. Brown's convincing assurances that she was Mary Bride.
When that worthy woman had been dismissed to the kitchen, he said
heavily:
"This has been an unfortunate mistake--very unfortunate."
"Not so unfortunate as it would have been if Pollyooly had been ten
years older. It would have cost you hundreds. As it is, I shouldn't
wonder if she would be content with a fiver as compensation," said the
Honourable John Ruffin with a soothing smile.
Mr. Wilkinson groaned; then he said:
"Well, I've made a mistake, and I suppose I must pay for it."
Slowly and sadly he drew a five-pound note from his notebook and handed
it to Pollyooly.
"Thank you, sir," said Pollyooly; and dropped a curtsey, like the
well-mannered child she was.
"Your housekeeper? To think that she should have roused the whole
hotel to get that bath!" said Mr. Wilkinson bitterly.
"She was for the time being the daughter of a duke--by your
appointment," said the Honourable John Ruffin suavely.
Mr. Wilkinson waved the detective out of the room, and followed him.
At the door he paused to say very heavily:
"I shall never trust my eyes again."
"No: I shouldn't," said the Honourable John Ruffin gently. "I think
another time, if I were you, I should try glasses."