BELEAGUERED.
MITTIE did not mean to be half-an-hour absent when she started on her
little excursion.
Hermione's "snubbing" had an uncomfortable effect, as such snubbings
always had upon Mittie. It was true, as Mrs. Trevor said, that she was
not used to them. Much spoiling and very limited scolding had fallen
to Mittie's share before she came to Westford. An occasional sharp
word from her mother had meant little, and had been always manageable
by a tear from Mittie. The child had really been never allowed to feel
herself in the way, and her loving sensitive nature suffered keenly
from this novel sensation under Hermione's rule.
It was an intense delight to Mittie to think of having her mother
back. Other people might count Mrs. Trevor no wise mother, and no very
estimable person in some respects, but she was Mittie's mother, and
there was genuine and hearty affection between the two.
If only Mittie might have rigged up a big flag of welcome! She
confided the notion to Milton, however, and Milton quashed the scheme
at once. "Miss Rivers wouldn't like it."
Mittie thought it "funny" that cousin Hermione never seemed to like
anything that she wished to do. But she was far too simple and
child-like to bear malice. If anybody had asked her within five
minutes after if she loved cousin Hermione, she would have answered
unhesitatingly, "Oh yes! 'course I do—only not like my Marjory,
you know!"
Failing the flag, she thought of the flowers, and here an appeal
to Hermione, as present head of affairs, was needful. Poor Mittie
was sorely disappointed to fail anew.
One resource remained. Once or twice lately in a walk with Marjory
she had found prettily-tinted autumn leaves, yellow and red and
golden-brown. "Mother" would surely like some of these placed on her
dressing-table.
Hermione did not forbid her to go out, therefore Mittie felt free.
She was accustomed to a good deal of liberty for so small a person.
It did not take long to get ready. Hat and jacket were soon donned,
and Mittie skipped away through the garden, gloves in hand, bent upon
reaching the meadows behind the Rectory. Tinted leaves might be
nearer, but there she knew they could be found without doubt.
There they were too; only, as it happened, all the best and prettiest
were out of Mittie's reach. She stood beneath tempting branches, and
looked up with longing eyes before resolving to go farther.
The next meadow might afford what she wanted. Mittie resolved
to venture so far. If she ran fast, going home, she would almost
certainly be in time.
A stile had to be climbed, and Mittie found herself in a large field,
covered with a succession of long rounded ridges of grass, like
petrified earthwaves. Near the encircling hedge grew in one spot
a good many scattered small trees, and about half-way between this
spot and the centre was a very fine young Wellingtonia, surrounded by
a brick wall. A fence had formerly enclosed the Wellingtonia, but the
fence having been repeatedly broken down, a wall had been substituted
by the owner, who was very proud of his American specimen.
Mittie stole along by the hedge, breaking off here and there a tinted
twig which caught her fancy, till she had quite a bouquet of
variegated colours. Then she resolved to turn home, but she thought
she would take one look in passing at certain small bushes growing
just inside the wall which protected the Wellingtonia. So the little
feet set off thither at a light run.
Suddenly some sound, or perhaps an instinctive sense of danger,
made Mittie turn her head and look back.
To her horror she was being chased. A large bull with lowered horns
was rushing at full gallop straight towards her.
Mittie had not known before that any creature beside herself was in
the field. Had she seen the animal she would have retreated at once,
for years of town-life had made her timid in this respect. Probably he
had been browsing behind a group of trees at a short distance till
attracted by her running.
One faint shriek burst from the child's lips, but she did not pause.
At her utmost speed she fled wildly over the grass towards the
Wellingtonia. Happily, she was a fleet runner, as well as a good
climber. Many a wall and small tree had Mittie learnt to scale since
Westford had been her home. Whether the bull really meant to hurt her,
or was merely trying conclusions as to speed, might be questioned,
but Mittie had no doubt whatever of his murderous intentions.
Not a dozen clear yards lay between pursuer and pursued when Mittie
gained the enclosing wall, but that was enough. She knew of the one
rugged and broken corner where she could ascend, and in another
instant she had gained the summit, safe, but gasping for breath,
blanched with terror, her poor little heart beating so madly that she
could scarcely see what lay before her eyes. She dared not drop down
within the wall, since it might not be possible to get up again on the
other side. There was nothing for it but to sit on the top, which
happily offered a fairly broad and secure surface, and to watch
with fascinated eyes her terrible foe.
One thing became at once apparent, that the bull had no notion
of climbing a wall. Mittie had had her doubts on this head, and was
consoled. Finding his prey out of reach, he stopped running, and
seemed disposed to take the matter coolly; but he showed no intention
of taking himself away. He browsed about carelessly here and there,
always within twenty or thirty yards of the enclosure. It would have
made little difference if he had gone to the utmost verge of the
field. Mittie felt that she could never venture to descend alone,
to cross the wide space between the wall and the stile, while the
enemy was anywhere within reach. She was on a fortress, practically
invested, hopelessly cut off from the rest of the world.
For a while Mittie bore up pluckily. She was accustomed of late
to rove about much alone, and to depend upon herself, and she felt
no doubt that somebody would soon come to the rescue. Only it did seem
very hard not to be at home to welcome her mother, and tears rose with
the thought.
The wall seat, though tolerably safe, since Mittie was not given
to giddiness, could not be called comfortable. Mittie debated several
times whether she might not venture to descend inside. But it would
not do. She would be out of sight there, and getting up again might
prove impossible, so smooth was the inner surface of the wall.
As time passed and no human being approached Mittie began to realise
that things were growing serious. Light faded fast, and soon her
little figure would be invisible, even if somebody did pass near.
It grew very cold too, and Mittie felt quite chilled and stiff with
long exposure. The idea of being all alone here after dark was
terrible to the sensitive child. Fortitude failed at last, and she
broke into bitter sobs, crying out for help.
In an interval of crying her eyes were caught by a faint light beyond
the first meadow. Mittie knew it to be the Rectory light, and the very
sight brought a thrill of hope. "O Marjory! Marjory! do come!" wailed
Mittie at first; and then— "But Marjory would tell me to ask God,"
she thought. And with the wailing sobs, which she was too cold and
frightened to check, were childish murmurs of prayer and trust.
Was ever such pleading unanswered?