Part II Chapter 5 Polly: A New-Fashioned Girl by L. T. Meade
FORSAKEN
The moment Nurse’s footsteps died away Flower sprang to her feet, snatched up a white wool shawl, which lay over the baby’s cot, wrapped it round her, and flew downstairs with the little creature in her arms.
Out through a side door which stood open ran Flower, down by the shrubbery, over the stile, and in a few moments she was out again on the wide, wild, lonely moor with Polly’s pet pressed close to her beating heart. Long before Nurse had returned to the nursery Flower had reached the moor, and when poor, distracted Nurse discovered her loss, Flower had wriggled herself into the middle of a clump of young oak-trees, and was fondling and petting little Pearl, who sat upright on her knee. From her hiding-place Flower could presently hear footsteps and voices, but none of them came near her, and for the present baby was contented, and did not cry. After a time the footsteps moved further off, and Flower peeped from her shelter.
“Now, baby, come on,” she said. She wrapped the shawl again firmly round the little one, and started with a kind of trotting motion over the outskirts of the moor. She was intensely excited, and her cheeks were flushed with the first delicious glow of victory. Oh, how sorry Polly would be now for having attempted to oppose her. Yes, Polly would know now that Flower Dalrymple was not a person to be trifled with.
She was really a strong girl, though she had a peculiarly fragile look. The weight of the three months’ old baby was not very great, and for a time she made quite rapid progress. After she had walked about a mile she stood still to consider and to make her plans. No more ignorant girl in all England could perhaps be found than this same poor silly, revengeful Flower; but even she, with all her ideas Australian, and her knowledge of English life and ways simply null and void, even she knew that the baby could not live for a long time without food and shelter on the wide common land which lay around. She did not mean to steal baby for always, but she thought she would keep her for a month or two, until Polly was well frightened and repentant, and then she would send her back by some kind, motherly woman whom she was sure to come across. As to herself, she had fully made up her mind never again to enter the doors of Sleepy Hollow, for it would be impossible for her, she felt, to associate with any people who had sat down to dinner with the kitchen-maid. Holding the baby firmly in her arms, Flower stood and hesitated. The warm fleecy white shawl sheltered little Pearl from all cold, and for the present she slept peacefully.
“I must try and find some town,” thought Flower. “I must walk to some town—the nearest, I suppose—with baby. Then I will sell one of my rings, and try to get a nice woman to give me a lodging. If she is a motherly person—and I shall certainly look out for some one that is—I can give her little Pearl when I get tired of her, and she can take her back to Sleepy Hollow. But I won’t give Pearl up for the present; for, in the first place she amuses me, and in the next I wish Polly to be well punished. Now I wonder which is the nearest way to the town? If I were at Ballarat, I should know quickly enough by the sign-posts placed at intervals all over the country, but they don’t seem to have anything of the sort here in barbarous England. Now, how shall I get to the nearest town without meeting any one who would be likely to tell Dr. Maybright?”
Flower had scarcely expressed herself in this fashion before once again the rough-looking man crossed her path. She greeted him quite joyfully.
“Oh! you’re just the person I want,” she exclaimed. “I’ve got my purse now, and a little money in it. Would you like to earn a shilling?”
“Sure-ly,” said the man. “But I’d a sight rather ’arn two,” he added.
“I’ll give you two. I have not got much money, but I’ll certainly give you two shillings if you’ll help me now. I have got a little baby here—a dear little baby, but she’s rather heavy. I am running away with her to revenge myself on somebody. I don’t mind telling you that, for you look like an outlaw yourself, and you’ll sympathize with me. I want you to carry baby for me, and to take us both to the nearest town. Do you hear? Will you do it?”
“Sure-ly,” said the man, favoring Flower with a long, peculiar glance.
“Well, here’s baby; you must be very careful of her. I’ll give you three shillings after you have taken her and me to the nearest town; and if you are really kind, and walk quickly, and take us to a nice restaurant where I can have a good dinner—for I am awfully hungry—you shall have something to eat yourself as well. Now walk on in front of me, please, and don’t waste any more time, for it would be dreadful if we were discovered.”
The man shambled on at once in front of Flower; his strong arms supported little Pearl comfortably, and she slumbered on in an unbroken dream.
The bright sunlight had now faded, the short October day was drawing in, the glory and heat of the morning had long departed, and Flower, whose green cloth dress was very light in texture, felt herself shivering in the sudden cold.
“Are you certain you are going to the nearest town?” she called out to the man.
“Sure-ly,” he responded back to her. He was stepping along at a swinging pace, and Flower was very tired, and found it difficult to keep up with him. Having begged of him so emphatically to hurry, she did not like to ask him now to moderate his steps. To keep up with him at all she had almost to run; and she was now not only hungry, cold, and tired, but the constant quick motion took her breath away. They had left the border of the moor, and were now in the middle of a most desolate piece of country. As Flower looked around her she shivered with the first real sensation of loneliness she had ever known. The moor seemed to fill the whole horizon. Desolate moor and lowering sky—there seemed to be nothing else in all the world.
“Where is the nearest town?” she gasped at last. “Oh, what a long, long way off it is!”
“It’s miles away!” said the man, suddenly stopping and turning round fiercely upon her; “but ef you’re hungry, there’s a hut yer to the left where my mother lives. She’ll give you a bit of supper and a rest, ef so be as you can pay her well.”
“Oh, yes, I can pay her,” responded Flower. The thought of any shelter or any food was grateful to the fastidious girl now.
“I am very hungry and very tired,” she said. “I will gladly rest in your mother’s cottage. Where is it?”
“I said as it wor a hut. There are two dawgs there: be you afeard?”
“Of dogs? I am not afraid of anything!” said Flower, curling her short lip disdainfully.
“You be a girl!” responded the man. He shambled on again in front, and presently they came in sight of the deserted hermit’s hut, where Polly and Maggie a few weeks before had been led captive. A woman was standing in the doorway, and by her side, sitting up on their haunches, were two ugly, lean-looking dogs.
“Down, Cinder and Flinder!” said the woman. “Down you brutes! Now, Patrick, what have you been up to? Whatever’s that in your arms, and who’s a-follering of yer?”
“This yer’s a babby,” said the man, “and this yer’s a girl. She,” pointing to Flower, “wants to be took to the nearest town, and she have money to pay, she says.”
“Oh! she have money to pay?” said the wife of Micah Jones—for it was she. “Them as has money to pay is oilers and oilers welcome. Come in, and set you down by the fire, hinney. Well, well, and so you has brought a babby with you! Give it to me, Pat. What do you know, you great hulking feller! about the tending of babbies?”
The man gladly relinquished his charge, then pointed backwards with his finger at Flower.
“She’s cold and ’ungry, and she has money to pay,” he said.
“Come in, then, Missy, come in; yer’s a good fire, and a hunk of cheese, and some brown bread, and there’ll be soup by-and-by. Yes,” winking at her son, “there’ll be good strong soup by-and-by.”
Flower, who had come up close to the threshold of the hut, now drew back a step or two. At sight of the woman her courage had revived, her feeling of extreme loneliness had vanished, and a good deal of the insolence which often marked her bearing had in consequence returned to her.
“I won’t go in,” she said. “It looks dirty in there and I hate dirt. No, I won’t go in! Bring me some food out here, please. Of course I’ll pay you.”
“Highty-tighty!” said the woman. “And is wee babby to stay out in the cold night air?”
“I forgot about the baby,” said Flower. “Give her to me. Is the night air bad for babies?” she asked, looking up inquiringly at the great rough woman who stood by her side.
Flower’s utter and fearless indifference to even the possibility of danger had much the same effect on Mrs. Jones that it had upon her son. They both owned to a latent feeling of uneasiness in her presence. Had she showed the least trace of fear; had she dreaded them, or tried in any way to soften them, they would have known how to manage her. But Flower addressed them much as she would have done menials in her kitchen at home. The mother, as well as the son, muttered under her breath—“Never see’d such a gel!” She dropped the baby into Flower’s outstretched arms, and answered her query in a less surly tone than usual.
“For sure night air is bad for babes, and this little ’un is young. Yes, werry young and purty.”
The woman pulled aside the white fluffy shawl; two soft clear brown eyes looked up at her, and a little mouth was curved to a radiant smile.
“Fore sure she’s purty,” said the woman. “Look, Patrick. She minds me o’—well, never mind. Missy, it ain’t good for a babe like that to be out in the night air. You’re best in the house, and so is the babe. The dawgs shan’t touch yer. Come into the house, and I’ll give yer what supper’s going, and the babe, pretty crittur, shall have a drink of milk.”
“I would not injure the baby,” said Flower. She held both arms firm round it, and entered the smoky, dismal hut.
The wife of Micah Jones moved a stool in front of the fire, pushed Flower rather roughly down on it, and then proceeded to cut thick hunches of sour bread and cheese. This was quite the coarsest food Flower had ever eaten, and yet she never thought anything more delicious. While she ate the woman sat down opposite her.
“I’ll take the babe now and feed it,” she said. “The pretty dear must be hungry.”
It was not little Pearl’s way to cry. It was her fashion to look tranquilly into all faces, and to take calmly every event, whether adverse or otherwise. When she looked at Flower she smiled, and she smiled again into the face of the rough woman who, in consequence, fed her tenderly with the best she had to give.
“Is the soup done?” said the rough man, suddenly coming forward. “It’s soup I’m arter. It’s soup as’ll put life into Miss, and give her a mind to walk them miles to the nearest town.”
The woman laughed back at her son.
“The soup’s in the pot,” she said. “You can give it a stir, Pat, if you will. Nathaniel will be in by-and-by, and he’ll want his share. But you can take a bowl now, if you like, and give one to Missy.”
“Ay,” said the man, “soup’s good; puts life into a body.”
He fetched two little yellow bowls filled one for Flower, stirring it first with a pewter spoon.
“This’ll put life into you, Miss,” he said.
He handed the bowl of soup to the young girl. All this time the woman was bending over the baby. Suddenly she raised her head.
“’Tis a bonny babe,” she said. “Ef I was you, Pat, I wouldn’t stir Missy’s soup. I’d give her your own bowl. I has no quarrel with Miss, and the babe is fair. Give her your own soup, Patrick.”
“It’s all right, mother, Miss wouldn’t eat as much as in my bowl. You ain’t ’ungry enough for that, be you, Miss?”
“I am very hungry,” said Flower, who was gratefully drinking the hot liquid. “I could not touch this food if I was not very hungry. If I want more soup I suppose I can have some more from the pot where this was taken. What is the matter, woman? What are you staring at me for?”
“I think nought at all of you,” said the woman, frowning, and drawing back, for Flower’s tone was very rude. “But the babe is bonny. Here, take her back, she’s like—but never mind. You’ll be sleepy, maybe, and ’ud like to rest a bit. I meant yer no harm, but Patrick’s powerful, and he and Nat, they does what they likes. They’re the sons of Micah Jones, and he was a strong man in his day. You’d like to sleep, maybe, Missy. Here, Patrick, take the bowl from the girl’s hand.”
“I do feel very drowsy,” said Flower. “I suppose it is from being out all day. This hut is smoky and dirty, but I’ll just have a doze for five minutes. Please, Patrick, wake me at the end of five minutes, for I must, whatever happens, reach the nearest town before night.”
As Flower spoke her eyes closed, and the woman, laying her back on some straw, put the baby into her arms.
“She’ll sleep sound, pretty dear,” she said. “Ef I was you I wouldn’t harm her, just for the sake of the babe,” she concluded.
“Why, mother, what’s took you? I won’t hurt Missy. It’s her own fault ef she runs away, and steals the baby. That baby belongs to the doctor what lives in the Hollow; it’s nought special, and you needn’t be took up with it. Ah, here comes Nathaniel. Nat, I’ve found a lass wandering on the moor, and I brought her home, and now the mother don’t want us to share the booty.”
Nathaniel Jones was a man of very few words indeed. He had a fiercer, wilder eye than his brother, and his evidently was the dominant and ruling spirit.
“The moon’s rising,” he said; “she’ll be at her full in half an hour. Do your dooty, mother, for we must be out of this, bag and baggage, in half an hour.”
Without a word or a sigh, or even a glance of remorse, Mrs. Jones took the cap from Flower’s head, and feeling around her neck discovered the gold chain which held the little bag of valuables. Without opening this she slipped it into her pocket. Flower’s dainty shoes were then removed, and the woman looked covetously at the long, fine, cloth dress, but shook her head over it.
“I’d wake her if I took it,” she said.
“No, you wouldn’t, I drugged the soup well,” said Pat.
“Well, anyhow, I’ll leave her her dress. There’s nought more but a handkerchief with a bit of lace on it.”
“Take the baby’s shawl,” said Nathaniel, “and let us be off. If the moon goes down we won’t see the track. Here, mother, I’ll help myself to the wrap.”
“No, you won’t,” said the woman. “You don’t touch the babe with the pale face and the smile of Heaven. I’m ready; let’s go.”
The dogs were called, and the entire party strode in single file along a narrow path, which led away in a westerly direction over Peg-Top Moor.