FAST as Mr. Webster rowed, it was not fast enough for Philip's anxiety. They both knew that if theFairyhad drifted down to Banksome Weir they would probably be too late to save Juliet from a terrible death. On a single minute might depend the fate of the girl.
Mr. Webster set his teeth and pulled with all his strength; Mrs. Webster was steering, and she kept the boat in mid-stream that it might get the full force of the current. Phil knelt in the bows, keeping the sharpest look-out for any sign of his missing cousin. The damp wind blew down the river and drove them on.
They passed many other boats and two or three barges, but not a sign of theFairy. They flew along between green banks, between hedges, trees, houses. Sometimes they could see nothing more distant than a hedge, at other times the flat fields stretched back and back, and were lost at the feet of misty gray hills. But not on the river,nor on the banks, nor in the fields, could Philip see Juliet's figure.
"How little even some grown men know about rowing!" was Mr. Webster's remark when he saw a heavy-looking boat with a smaller one tied to its stern coming up the middle of the stream. "It is that old gentleman who, they say, is staying at the hotel with his son, and their man-servant is sculling them up the very stiffest bit of the current."
"Hoorah!" shouted Philip. "All right, Juliet!"
For on the seat beside Mr. Burnet, sheltered by his umbrella, sat the truant girl, while young Leonard was giving Roberts instructions in the art of rowing.
The two boats met and came alongside. Philip was so greatly relieved in mind that he almost felt inclined to cry, while Juliet was silent and ashamed if not sulky.
"This child has given her friends at Littlebourne Lock a terrible fright," said Mr. Webster to Mr. Burnet. "When they discovered that the boat was missing as well as the girl, they quite thought that both must have gone over the weir together."
The vicar had brought his boat close beside Mr. Burnet's, and held the rowlocks of the latter while he asked questions.
"Is she hurt in any way?"
"No, not at all. I think we came upon her just in time."
"Had she got down as far as the weir?"
"Just to the first pier which is marked with the word DANGER."
"Oh, Juliet!" cried Philip with a gasp. "If theFairyhad been drawn to the wrong side of that post—"
Mr. Webster looked so grave, and they were all so impressed with a sense of the great peril she had incurred, that Juliet's pride and coldness were broken down for once, and she sat beside Mr. Burnet weeping silently.
"Well, well," said Mrs. Webster, "she is tired, and I daresay hungry, and you had better get her home as quickly as you can. There is heavy rain coming up, and we must be down at Egham by four o'clock if possible. I am afraid we shall be caught by the storm. Philip Rowles, get into this gentleman's boat, and help to take your cousin home."
"And I will look in one day, little girl, and have a talk with you," said the vicar of Littlebourne as he bent to his work and flew down the river, distancing the storm.
Leonard Burnet now took an oar and Roberts took the other, and they rowed hard against wind and current. Mr. Burnet sheltered Juliet and himself as best he could against the rain, whichcame in heavy, uncertain dashes. Philip had to sit on the planks at their feet, for the stern seat only held two.
"Do tell me, Juliet, all that has happened to you. Did theFairygo adrift by accident?"
"No," replied Juliet through her muffled sobs.
"Then how did she get unmoored? I do believe she has lost a scull!" Philip added, trying to examine the poor old boat which was being towed behind them. "I can't make out very well, but I think she has lost a scull and her rudder."
"Yes," said Juliet in a husky voice.
"I don't know what my father will say—" Philip began.
"I know what he will say," interrupted Mr. Burnet. "He will be so overjoyed to see his little niece again safe and sound that he will say not a word about the scull and the rudder."
"He will want to know how it all happened," said Philip; then he added, addressing Juliet, "you will have to tell him every bit about it from beginning to end."
"I can't, I won't," said Juliet faintly.
Philip was all in a fidget to hear a full account of Juliet's adventure, so he said, shaking his head, "Ah, then, I should advise you to tellmethe story, and then I can tell it to father, and save you the trouble."
"Yes, Juliet," added Mr. Burnet; "tell us the whole story."
Thus persuaded, the girl poured out the tale of her adventures, which had been pent up in her stubborn heart, as the waters were sometimes pent up in the lock; and then, just as the waters when they escape from the lock pour out and away in a mad foaming rush, so Juliet's thoughts and words poured themselves out in a torrent when once she began to talk.
"I thought—I thought—it was quite easy to manage a boat; and I thought I would just take theFairya little way, over to the opposite bank, and get some forget-me-nots and come back again."
"Were you not forbidden to take out the boat?" asked Mr. Burnet.
Juliet hung her head, and then lifting it said, "Yes; but I did not care. I would not be ordered about by them, nor by nobody. So I got into the boat when they were all busy and untied the bit of rope from the post, and then the water made it move away quite quick. And I wanted to sit on the little seat that goes across, and I slipt and caught my shin such a crack against the edge of it, and I went down on my face on the floor; and I should have liked to call out, but I did not want anybody to know that I was gone. And when I did get on the seat and rubbed my shin-bone,which it has got the skin scratched off and sticking to my stocking, there was two great pieces of wood to be put out on each side to push the boat on with."
"The sculls," Philip put in.
"They ain't skulls; they are more like arms, or legs perhaps. They were so heavy, and when I pulled one up from the floor and put the end of it over into the water, I found it was the wrong end, and the spoon part had come into the boat. So I got that one to go right after a fight with it, and the other one went right much sooner; and so when they were right in their sockets the boat was gone out into the middle of the water. And Iwasfrightened, I can tell you."
"I should think so!" said Mr. Burnet.
"Go on," said young Leonard.
"And so I tried to put both the sticks in the water at the same time, but when one went down the other went up, and the one that went down made a great splash, and then got itself so much under the water that it would not come up again for a long time; and so the one that went up seemed to get stuck, and when it came down it made a worse splash than the other one, and the water jumped up and hit me in the face and made my hat all wet. And there was a great black boat as big as Noah's ark going by, and three horses drawing it, and a little chimney init, and two men, and they called out 'See-saw! see-saw!' and it was awful rude of them."
"And what happened next?"
"Why, I thought I could get along better if I had one oar at a time; and so I took up one and put both hands to it, and dipped it down deep and pulled it hard in the water, and so the other one got loose somehow and slipped away and fell into the water. And there was a boat and people sitting in it on chairs with fishing-rods, and they did so laugh at me; and some men on the bank they laughed too, and called out something, but I don't know what they said. And then the boat went on and on, and I saw some broad white posts like you have at Littlebourne Weir, and the boat went up sideways tight against the posts, and I sat still and waited until somebody come by to help me."
"And were you not frightened?"
"I was that frightened I could not have spoke if it was ever so."
"Well, well, well," said Mr. Burnet, "here you are safe, and very thankful you must be that we came down just in time to save you. Had the boat been carried over the weir you would have been drowned. But when Roberts saw you he knew you were one of the Littlebourne children, and my son felt sure that you were in distress."
As soon as Juliet had told her story she r into silence; the excitement of her rescue was passing off, and the terror of her danger remained. She sat beside Mr. Burnet and heard the rain pattering on his umbrella, and wished she was at the lock and wished she was in London, and wished she was grown-up and doing for herself, and not so stupid and always putting other people out and making things go wrong. Juliet was quite sure that though she had got into trouble with the boat, there were heaps of other things that she would be very clever about.
The rain was pouring down when Mr. Burnet's boat arrived at Littlebourne Lock.
Cries of joy greeted Juliet as soon as her relations saw her. Mr. Rowles was full of gruff thanks to the gentlemen, and begged the whole party to go inside the house until the rain should cease. For there was bright sky beyond the black clouds, and the shower would soon be over. So they all went into the "lodgers' rooms," as Mrs. Rowles called those which she was in the habit of letting, and there they sat together talking.
"I am afraid," said Mrs. Rowles, "that Juliet will never do better until she learns to be guided by the orders and the advice of other people. I used to think that she wanted encouraging and helping on, but I find that she really thinks a great deal of herself, and does not like to be told anything."
"But she must and shall be told!" cried her uncle. "A bit of a girl setting herself up against her elders indeed! If she is to stay in my house she shall obey my orders. Do you hear me, Juliet?"
"Yes," answered Juliet.
"And your aunt's orders."
"Yes, as long as I am in your house."
With these words Juliet burst into a flood of angry tears, and kicked her heels upon the floor in a violent manner.
"You had better go up to your room," said Mrs. Rowles gently.
The girl flung herself away, slamming the door after her.
"A troublesome child," said Mr. Burnet.
"Yes, sir. Poor thing! there are excuses to be made for her. Of late years her father has been a good deal out of work and in bad health; and then living in a close-packed part of London is trying to the temper. And she's a baby beginning to feel her feet, and beginning to feel herself getting on towards a woman. I am very sorry for her, poor child, but I don't know about keeping her with us. You don't want your whole comfort upset."
"And your boat too," said Rowles; "and your scull broken and lost. It's a-clearing up, I do believe," he added, going out to the front of thehouse, for he never stayed indoors when he could be out. Roberts followed him.
"Where does the child come from?" Mr. Burnet asked of Mrs. Rowles.
She named the street, and added, "Her father is a printer, and that is one thing that makes my husband so set against her."
"Why so?" inquired the gentleman.
"Because he thinks it unhealthy and wicked-like to work by night and sleep by day, as you must when you are on a morning paper like poor Thomas. You see, sir, Rowles has been lock-keeper these seventeen years with eighteen shillings a-week and a house, and his hours from six in the morning to ten at night; so he always gets his money regular and his sleep regular, and he can't see why other men can't do the same."
"We cannot be all of one trade," remarked Mr. Burnet. "And I hope he does not hold that bad opinion of all in the printing business, because I am a printer myself."
"You, sir!" cried Mrs. Rowles, while Emily opened her eyes.
"I don't mean exactly in the same way as that child's father, but I am in the same line. When I was a younger man I used to sit in the office of a newspaper every alternate night to receive the foreign telegrams as they came in. It wasrather trying. Ah, Mrs. Rowles, while half the world is asleep in bed the other half is hard at work getting things ready for the sleepers when they waken. Do you know that, my dear?" he finished, as he turned to Emily.
"Yes, sir," replied Emily. "The people in Australia are asleep while the people in England are awake."
The gentleman laughed. "I did not mean that exactly, but you are quite right, my child. Yes, day and night come turn about to most of us. I am taking life easier now as I grow old. Most of my work is over. It is my boy's turn to go on with the task. One wants rest after the heat and burden of the day; and it is a blessed thing when at evening time there is light, and we can think over the mistakes and the mercies of the past, and look forward to the repose and joy of the future."
These words were so serious that Mrs. Rowles did not attempt to reply to them. And presently Mr. Burnet roused himself from his solemn thoughts and said brightly, "There! clear shining after rain. Now, we must say good-bye and go home."
While Mr. Burnet and Mrs. Rowles had been talking, Roberts and the lock-keeper had also been conversing.
"It is my own fault," Rowles said, "and mywife's. One might know that a London girl like that would be sure to get into trouble in the country. Her father's a printer; sits up all night, and naturally never has his head clear for anything."
"Oh, come now," replied Roberts; "you are too hard on printers, you are. If they were not clear-headed I don't see how they could set up their type without more mistakes than they make. Why, I've had relations myself in the printing line, and Mr. Burnet is a master-printer himself."
"Is he now?" said Rowles.
"That's what we're down here for. He's bought up half theThames Valley Times and Post, and he wants to live near the works, and while we are looking out for a house we have to stay at the hotel. Mr. Leonard is going into the business too, as soon as he is old enough."
Roberts had just reached this point when Mr. Burnet came out from the house. Rowles looked with more interest at the old gentleman who was in the same line with Thomas Mitchell, and from that moment began to think better of printers in general.
The sky was rapidly clearing, so the three visitors turned the cushions of the boat, and stepping into it went through the lock, and were soon going up between the green banksand hedges, all deliciously freshened by the heavy summer rain.
"He's a nice old fellow," Rowles muttered to himself; "but then all printers are not like him. Here, Phil, see what you can do to put theFairyin order again. But as for that Juliet, if my wife was not so soft-hearted I would turn the girl out to run home or to get her own living."
Juliet Mitchell had gone up to the little room which she shared with Emily Rowles. It did not contain much furniture, and what there was had seen its best days long before. The chest of drawers had lost most of its handles; the looking-glass which stood on the drawers swung round the wrong way unless it was propped up by a book or by a box. It had swung round in this manner, but had stuck half-way. When Juliet entered the room she came face to face with the glass, and consequently face to face with herself.
What she saw was enough to frighten her, and did frighten her. The scowling brows, the flushed cheeks, the pushed-out lips, were more like those of some fierce and raging animal than the features of a young girl in a Christian land. She stopped short and glared at her own reflection. It glared back as angrily at her. "What a horrid, ugly, cross thing, you are!" said Juliet.
The face in the glass said the very same wordswith its lips, though it made no sound. Then Juliet stood still and talked with herself.
"You are the ugliest, the crossest, most stupid, awkward creature I ever did come near; and so I tell you plainly, Juliet Mitchell. Since you came into this house not a thing but what is tiresome have you done. Why, if your aunt was to jaw you from morning to night you would do no better; and you can't stand being jawed, you know. And your aunt just looks at you in a way that is more piercing than if she was to talk for weeks! And your uncle, he's your own mother's own brother; but there! he'd be glad enough if you was to take yourself off. And that's about the best thing you can do. Take yourself off and get your own living like other girls of your age. Nobody wants you, here or in London. There's a many little places going; and when you've shown that you can take care of yourself and don't want none of their advice, nor none of their money either, then won't they be pleased to get a letter from you!"
Like many another young girl—ay, and boy too—Juliet had a great notion of independence—of getting away from advice and restraint, and of earning money for herself. In London more than in the country, girls go off and engage themselves as servants or in some other capacity,and so start alone in the world like little boats putting out on a stormy sea without sail or oar, rudder or compass. And many, many are wrecked on the first rock; and many go through wild tempests and suffer terrible hardships. A few battle through the winds and waves and reach a happy shore.
Had Juliet asked advice of anyone, or had she knelt and implored guidance from her Heavenly Father, she would not have made the mad resolve which now shaped itself in her mind. It was the resolve to go away from Littlebourne Lock, on that side of the river which she knew least—away from her relations, from the village, from the church, from the railway, to find a situation with some stranger in a place where no one knew her; in a word, to provide for herself.
As her resolve grew more fixed she felt calmer, and even pleased. Smiles began to flicker over her features; and when she next looked in the glass she murmured to her reflection, "I say, you ain't so bad-looking after all!"
A knock on the door roused her. Mrs. Rowles came in.
The good aunt sat down on the foot of the bed and drew the girl towards her, putting her motherly arm round the little figure, and smoothing the ruffled hair. Mrs. Rowles went on to explain to Juliet the great danger which shehad run, and the extreme naughtiness of flat disobedience; and all the while Juliet stood with a calm face and silent manner, so that her aunt thought she was penitent. But this quietness was caused by her having so fully made up her mind as to what she would do next. She let Mrs. Rowles speak on, and appeared meek and humble; but in reality her thoughts were not on anything that she heard.
"And so," said Mrs. Rowles, rising at length and unclasping the sheltering arms, "when you have been with us a little longer, and have learnt a little more, we will get you a nice situation—and Mrs. Webster knows all the good situations that are going,—and you shall have a start in life; and I've written to your mother to tell her what I think of doing for you. We shall have her answer the day after to-morrow."
Juliet said coldly, "All right."
"I thought you might like another frock," said Mrs. Rowles, "so I have been making one for you out of a gown of my own; and here are two new print aprons, and I've put a fresh ribbon on your hat. You are quite set up now, my dear."
"I suppose," said Juliet without thanking her aunt, "that them things are good enough for going to service."
"Oh yes, quite good enough—if you shouldhappen to hear of a little place to suit you. Don't you like them?"
"They are right enough," said Juliet.
Then Mrs. Rowles turned and went away, wondering that so young a girl should be so hard, and totally unsuspicious of the resolve which was in that young hard heart.
It was a resolve which could not be put in execution at once; Juliet must needs wait for a favourable opportunity. Two days went by and she did not find one; then came a letter from her mother saying that if Juliet could find a situation in the country it would be better than coming back to overcrowded London, where young girls in swarms were looking out for means of earning their livings. Mrs. Mitchell said little more; all were pretty well except baby, who was always poorly.
Juliet now considered that she had got a sort of permission from her mother to do what she wished to do. She thought she could defy her uncle and aunt if they found any fault with her actions.
The eventful moment arrived.
Mrs. Rowles and Emily had gone to the village to buy a few things for the lodgers who were expected shortly. Mr. Rowles was busy at the lock; Philip was going to take out theFairyfor her first trip after her repairs.
Juliet came down from the attic. She wore her new-made frock, her re-trimmed hat, and carried a parcel containing the print aprons. Phil did not notice what she wore or what she carried.
"Take me in the boat, Phil," she said coaxingly.
"I thought you had had enough of the boat," he replied.
"But you will be in it, this time."
"Oh, I don't want you," said the boy.
"Well, then, just set me down on the opposite bank."
"I don't mind doing that; but you may have to wait a long time before I come back for you."
"All right," said Juliet; "I don't care how long you are."
She stepped into theFairy, and sat quite still while Philip rowed her to the far-off bank. Then she got out very gravely, and sat down on the grass until he was out of sight.
Fields came down to the water's edge. Where Juliet sat there was a muddy bit of gravel shelving to the river. She did not know what made this break in the bank. It had been formed by cows and horses coming down to drink. In the field there were now no animals; had there been she would have hesitated about remaining in it. But as soon as Phil had disappeared she stood and looked about her, and perceived that therewas no living creature in sight, except the larks singing on high and the grasshoppers chirping among the grass.
Juliet walked swiftly across the field to a gate which stood open, and through which she passed. Hardly had she entered the second field when she saw at the further side of it about a dozen cows. Her heart fell. Like most London girls she was horribly afraid of cows. Yet to go back would be to undo her plan; besides the animals had already seen her, and all their heads were turned in her direction.
"I must not irritate them," she thought, "and yet I must get on out of this field. If I creep along under the hedge they will not notice me."
Her frock was a dark green, and her hat a black one. She sidled along close to the hedge, keeping her eyes on the cows, which presently resumed their feeding. But as she did not look where she was treading she went down, splash! into a ditch.
Mud and duckweed covered her boots, several dirty marks were made on her frock, the parcel fell out of her hand, and probably the black stains on the paper had penetrated to the contents. This was her first misfortune.
She got herself out of the ditch and went on more carefully, keeping still in the shade of the hedge. Then a great spray of bramble caught a bow of ribbon on her hat and lifted the wholething off her head. It flew up in the air, and only after repeated jumps could she get hold of it and bring it down again. This was her second misfortune.
Her tumblings and jumpings had attracted the attention of the cows once more, and a calf being young and inquisitive thought he would like to have a nearer view of the intruder, and began to follow Juliet. This was her third misfortune.
Her first impulse was to run, but a second thought told her that the cows would be sure to run after her. So she did not run, but walked as fast as she could, the calf walking faster and gaining on her. She stumbled and tripped and panted, and fixed her eyes on a gate, hoping that she might reach it before the calf came up with her. On she went with terrified steps, arrived at the gate, and found it fastened.
She threw the parcel over, climbed up the five wooden bars, and was going to climb down on the other side when she felt the great, warm, wet lips of the calf playing with her left ankle. She gave one screech of horror and threw herself head-foremost to the ground. It was soft and mossy, and she rose, shaken and bruised, and with a hole in the knee of each stocking.
But she had escaped from the calf. The copse or wood into which she had entered was dark and cool. A pathway went curving in and out amongthe trees. At a sharp turn she came suddenly upon a big man with a beard, who pointed a gun full at her, and said, "Stand, or I'll fire!"
This was her fourth misfortune.
Here was a dreadful, cruel robber such as she had read about in badly-printed penny books, and he would shoot her dead in half a minute. She gave a scream and turned to run back, but the man strode after her and laid a huge hand on her shoulder. At this she screamed and danced with terror.
"Now, now," roared the man, "stop that row! What are you doing here?"
"I want to go away!" cried Juliet.
"So you shall. But answer my questions first."
Glancing up at him Juliet perceived that he was laughing. All her fears vanished and she began to laugh too.
"What are you doing here?" asked the man again.
"I'm only walking through the wood," said Juliet, recovering her courage. "There ain't no law against that, I suppose."
"Yes, but there is. 'Trespassers will be prosecuted with the utmost rigour of the law.' Where do you come from?"
"From over there," and Juliet pointed behind her.
"Oh! And where are you going?"
"Over there," and she pointed before her.
The man whistled. "If you're not a Londoner, I'm a Dutchman. You're pretty sharp, you are."
"No, I ain't," said Juliet, stolidly; "I'm that stupid and awkward that I can't do nothing right. So I want a general place, I do."
"Oh!" said the big man, laughing; "awkward and stupid wants a place. Hope you'll get it, miss. Well, now, look here. Go right on and get out of the wood as quick as ten thousand lightnings, or else you'll be prosecuted with the utmost rigour of the law."
Juliet wriggled away from under his heavy hand and ran right ahead, thankful to escape from the gun.
She came soon to the edge of the wood and found a fence easy to climb. On the other side of this she came into a lane which led out on a highroad. It was now late in the day; the sun was getting low, and the shadows grew longer and the air sweeter. She walked on quietly, thinking herself safe from pursuit. How surprised every one would be when they discovered that she had started in life by herself! Perhaps they would see that she was not so stupid and awkward as they thought.
"But I've got no place yet," said the girl to herself. "I must find one pretty sharp or I shallhave nowhere to sleep to-night. Here's two houses; either on 'em would do for me."
Two small brick houses stood by the roadside. They had green doors, and shutters outside the windows, and little gardens in front.
"There ain't not a bit of use in being shy," said Juliet to herself, her courage all the while sinking lower and lower. "I'm as bold as brass, I always was. Here goes!"
She walked up to the door of the first cottage and rapped on it with her knuckles.
It was opened by a tall, thin, elderly woman in a high black bonnet. "What do you want?" she said.
"Please, missus, I want a place; general servant, like."
The woman looked at her from the crown of her hat to the heels of her boots. "Oh, do you? Where have you been living?"
"Over there," said Juliet.
"Over where?"
"Littlebourne way."
The woman seemed to be thinking deeply.
"Got a first-rate character, I suppose?"
"Oh, well," said Juliet hastily, "I've not been in a regular situation, as the saying is, but helping a friend, you know."
"It's a pity you've left her," said the woman. "What wages were you getting?"
Juliet said, lamely enough, "I didn't have no regular wages. They kep' me, and gave me these," showing the aprons.
"Ah! Did they send you away?"
"No, missus; I just took French leave and come away when it suited me. I want to better myself."
"I see. Well, come in. I'll try you. My name isBosher. Do you hear—Mrs. Bosher?"
While Juliet stood in the narrow passage Mrs. Bosher locked and bolted the door, and at every sound the poor, foolish girl grew more and more unhappy, and more cut off from all hope and all happiness. Mrs. Bosher's bonnet and Mrs. Bosher's name were enough to terrify any young person with a bad conscience.
"Yes," said Juliet's new mistress, "my name is Bosher"—here the bonnet nodded,—"and now you are my servant, and while you are in my service you will do precisely everything that I tell you. I have a brother who has a gun; sometimes he shoots rooks, sometimes he shoots—other things. He lives next door. If you do a single thing that displeases me, you shall be prosecuted with the utmost rigour of the law."
Juliet longed to scream, or kick, or run away; but she did not dare to move. "The utmost rigour of the law" might mean something awful: it might mean being hanged, or being shot by Mrs. Bosher's brother. The passage was almost dark,and Juliet stood trembling beside her dreadful mistress. Oh, if only it were possible to be back once more at the lock! Oh, if only she could escape from this new situation! Locked doors, and windows shuttered on the outside, made this cottage a very prison. The man with the gun living-next door, the unknown rigour of the law hanging over her head, Mrs. Bosher glaring through the twilight—how endure them even for a night? And how get away from them in the morning?
She was pushed into a kitchen and bidden to wash up some cups and saucers. "And woe betide you if you break one of them!" said Mrs. Bosher, her bonnet nodding so strangely that it seemed to be the speaker rather than its wearer.
Juliet was so fearful lest she might let slip a cup or saucer that she spent about half an hour in washing the crockery. While she did this at a side table, Mrs. Bosher was ironing linen at the table in the middle of the room. From time to time the sharp, sensible eyes of the woman rested upon the face of the girl, and at such moments the top of the black bonnet nodded as if it were alive.
When Juliet had finished her task Mrs. Bosher said, "Now, you shall have bread-and-milk for supper, and then go to bed."
"I don't like bread-and-milk," returned Juliet, "and it is too early to go to bed."
"Indeed. What do you like for supper? And at what hour do you prefer to go to bed?"
"I like bread and cheese; and we went to bed at ten o'clock when uncle's work was done."
The bonnet nodded faster than before.
"You will eat bread-and-milk or nothing, and if your aunt let you sit up till ten o'clock I am not so foolish."
A basin of the food which Juliet declined to eat was set before her. She was very hungry, but having refused it already she let it lie untasted. Meanwhile Mrs. Bosher lighted a lamp.
"It is nearly nine o'clock. Now you go to bed. Come along."
There was a door which Mrs. Bosher opened, revealing a flight of stairs. She pushed Juliet up them, and though the girl would have liked to rebel, she did not dare to do so. In fact, she thought the wisest plan would be to go quietly up to the bed-room, and, as soon as Mrs. Bosher herself was in bed, to get out by the window and make her way back to Littlebourne Lock. There was a full moon, and the night was almost as light as the day.
So she let herself be pushed upstairs into an almost empty little room in the roof, and when she heard the door locked upon her she laughed silently, thinking that the cruel woman had done the very thing her prisoner wished her to do.Mrs. Bosher's heavy steps went down the wooden stairs; the door of the house was opened, shut, and locked, and Juliet's spirits rose when she knew that she was alone. She might as well run away at once.
She looked at the window. It was in the roof—a skylight. There was no means of getting up to it, and no means of opening it that Juliet could perceive. Oh, she was caught in a trap! One or two large stars stared down through the small panes, and the diffused light of the moon was enough to show the girl how hopeless was her condition. She was in prison, caught, with no chance of escape. What a terrible position she had brought herself into! If her aunt could see her! If her own dear mother could see her!
Juliet threw herself on the little hard bed and wept bitterly. Not a sound could she hear! Alone, hungry, miserable!
After a while her sobs ceased and she felt sleepy. She pulled up a blanket and quilt which she had been lying on and thought that she might as well sleep a little, and waken with fresh courage and fresh plans. Like many other people Juliet made her most earnest prayers when she was in trouble. She turned and knelt upon the bed, saying all her petitions with earnestness; then she lay down again, and her dreams took her far away from all her many misfortunes.
When Juliet awoke in the early morning she could not at first remember where she was. It was not the old home in London, crowded with father, mother, and children. It was not the new home at Littlebourne, where Emily's bed lay beside that of her cousin. Oh, but it was the prison in which the dreadful Mrs. Bosher and her bonnet had shut up an unhappy girl and kept her all night!
Looking round the room, Juliet saw on the boards close to the door the same basin of bread-and-milk which she had refused to eat on the previous evening. Mrs. Bosher must have put it in noiselessly while her prisoner was asleep. The prisoner could not resist her fare this morning, but ate it all up, though the milk was just what she called "on the turn."
She did not know what the time was; the sun rose so early that he shone as brightly at five o'clock as at seven o'clock. What did it matter? Juliet could not get out until her jailer chose torelease her. As soon as Mrs. Bosher opened the house-door, or sent her out for water, or for a cabbage, or to hang up wet linen, she would make off and run away somewhere. Not through the wood, lest the awful brother might be there again, and the utmost rigour of the law prosecute the trespasser; but somewhere, anywhere.
Juliet lay down and slept again. She was disturbed by the door of the room being opened, and the bonnet nodding in.
"Oh, you are not up. Come down and wash in the scullery."
The bonnet went down the stairs, and Juliet followed. It stood over her while she washed and brushed her hair, and made herself tidy. Then it gave her a toasting-fork and some slices of bread, and set her in front of the kitchen fire. While thus obeying Mrs. Bosher the mind of Juliet was trying to strike out some plan of escape; but when she saw the brother outside in the road she put off running away. The clock told her that the hour was eight. The Littlebourne family was now at breakfast too. How they must be fretting for want of Juliet!
As it happened, they were not fretting at all, but talking together cheerfully.
Juliet did not want much more in the way of breakfast. She sat, cross and ugly, scowling at Mrs. Bosher.
When breakfast was ended and the dinner put to cook in the oven, Juliet began once more to look about for a chance of escape. The brother was not to be seen from the window. There must come the right moment presently. Mrs. Bosher left the kitchen. Now the right moment had come. Juliet put on her hat, and went into the passage.
"That is a good girl," said the deep voice, "I'm ready too."
A strong hand took Juliet by the arm, and the hat and the bonnet went out together. Speechless with terror, the girl could not resist. She was hurried along the road in the direction furthest from Littlebourne, past the brother's house, and past several other houses. What could it all mean? Whither were they going?
At the corner of a cross-road there stood the brother himself, but without the gun. Mrs. Bosher led Juliet to him, and his hand took the place of his sister's.
"Here's the runaway," said Mrs. Bosher. "She'll be safe with you."
"Rather," said the big man; "or she shall know the rigour of the law." It was odd how his eyes laughed while his mouth was so awful.
"So you'll dispose of her, Jim; and I'll run back, for I've left the door open."
The bonnet went nodding away, and the burlyJim dragged Juliet along faster than she could walk, and almost as fast as she could run. She was soon tired and out of breath. Neither spoke.
They went along one road and turned down another, and crossed the Thames by a bridge, and passed through a street of shops, and then, by a dirty lane among gas-works, arrived at a place which Juliet had seen before.
"Why, it is Littlebourne station!" she exclaimed.
And there, on the platform where the sun was beating down with fierce heat, stood Mr. and Mrs. Webster. The big man took Juliet up to them and placed her in front of them, saying, "Here she is; I've done my part of the business, and I place her safely in your charge."
Mrs. Webster was looking at Juliet with pitying eyes; the vicar of Littlebourne appeared sterner than his wife.
"Very good," he said to Mrs. Bosher's brother; "we will take her in charge. It happens very fortunately that we are going to London to-day, and so can dispose of her. How much anxiety and trouble her bad conduct has caused! It was very clever of Mrs. Bosher to guess who the girl was."
"Yes, sir, so it was. When my sister came in last night to tell me how a young thing from Littlebourne had come to her house, having runaway from home seemingly, I should never have seen my way to finding out the truth. But then women are quicker-witted than men, though they are not so steady-headed. And my sister says, 'She must have come across the fields somehow.' And I says, 'I met a slip of a girl in the wood, and made believe that I was going to shoot her.' And says Mrs. Bosher, 'It's the same girl, take my word for it,' says she. 'And, you, Jim,' she says, 'step over to the lock the first thing in the morning, and ask Mrs. Rowles if they have seen a girl coming through the fields in this direction.' Which I did."
To all this Juliet was listening eagerly.
"And two words settled it," said Mrs. Bosher's brother; "two words with Mrs. Rowles. 'Why,' says she, 'it must be our niece Juliet who ran away last night, and wehavebeen in a state ever since.' And then she described her niece, and I saw plain enough that it was this identical girl. There came an old gentleman in a boat just then, and so I said good-morning and went to tell my sister what I had heard."
"They did not wish to have the girl brought back to them?"
"Oh, no, sir; they'd had enough of her. They said she must go to her home in London. And Mrs. Rowles knew that you would be going to town to-day, and she promised to send word toyou that I would bring this runaway here to meet you; and Mrs. Rowles said she knew you would see her safe home, because you are always ready to help everybody."
Mrs. Webster smiled. "And what did Mr. Rowles say about his niece?"
"Oh, he said she was a regular bad un; went off alone in the boat and got shipwrecked. He said she had a father who never thought of getting up to work until other folks were going to bed, and what else could you expect from the daughter of such a man as that? But the old gentleman who had got out of the boat said, 'Tut, nonsense!' and seemed to want to have an argument with Rowles after I had left. And now, sir, I see your train coming, and I have talked myself out; so good-morning to you and to your good lady."
Lifting his hat, Mrs. Bosher's brother went away, and Juliet saw no more of him. She was pushed into a carriage with the vicar and Mrs. Webster. Indignant she was, and unhappy; all her folly and all her wickedness were coming back upon her now.
During the long, hot journey up to London Mr. Webster several times spoke very severely to Juliet. He knew enough of her story to be aware that she was selfish and conceited, unwilling to be taught, and resolved to have herown way. He told her how she might have lived most happily at the lock until a nice little situation had been found for her; but she had spoilt everything, and made her uncle and aunt glad to get rid of her. He told her that unless she could become more humble and teachable she would never learn anything good; that it is the childlike, humble souls which grow in wisdom and in favour with God and man.
Mrs. Webster did not say much, but looked so gently at Juliet that her looks had almost as much effect as her husband's words. The experience of the last few days, her frights, her misfortunes, the gun of Mrs. Bosher's brother, the locking up in Mrs. Bosher's house, this sudden journey home, all showed Juliet that she had tried the patience of grown-up people more than they could bear. She looked with hazy eyes on the country that they were passing through; she hardly saw the fields and trees. But at length she noticed that the houses were more numerous, and then that the fields were gone, and then that she was in London—hot, smoky, noisy London once more.
"It is very annoying for you," said Mr. Webster to his wife in a low tone, which yet was distinct enough to Juliet's young ears—"very annoying for you to be obliged to go to the other side of the city, when your mother expects youat eleven o'clock. But there is no help for it. I have to go down to Westminster. I don't suppose I shall see you till we meet at Paddington to come back by the 7:45 train. I will put you and the child into an omnibus in Praed Street, and when you get out Juliet Mitchell must guide you to her home."
Even the West-end was hot and steamy on that broiling August day. Never before had Juliet thought London so unpleasant; the reason being that this was the first time she could contrast the town with the country. It seemed to her that the further she went through the streets the thicker the air became, the dimmer the light, the dingier the houses. And so indeed it was. And when she brought Mrs. Webster into the street which contained No. 103, she wondered how that lady would like to exchange Littlebourne vicarage for an East-end vicarage.
An almost similar thought was passing through Mrs. Webster's mind, or rather, the same thought reversed.
"Juliet," she said, "I wonder how your father and mother would like to leave London and come and live at Littlebourne?"
"I don't know, ma'am," answered Juliet.
"I have heard a good deal about them from Mrs. Rowles. Your father would have better health if he lived in the country."
By this time they had reached No. 103. Juliet's heart was beating at the sight of the well-known door-step of her home. She forgot all about Mrs. Webster, and ran on. There were lots of boys and girls playing in the street; some called out to her, some stared at Mrs. Webster. But Juliet took no notice; only ran on, climbed up the dear old dirty, steep stairs without bannisters, and got to the door of the back attic, followed closely by her companion.
The girl did not knock, but rushed in, and then stood aghast. A strange woman was there but no one else.
"Where is mother?" cried Juliet.
"Whose mother?" responded the strange woman.
"My mother."
"Ain't she got e'er a name?"
"Yes; she's Mrs. Mitchell."
"Oh, the Mitchell lot has gone into the front room, if you please. Going up again in the world, I can tell you."
Juliet turned and dashed into the front room. There she found another surprise.
Her father lay sleeping; her mother was sewing at some black hats and bits of crape. The other children, all but Albert, stood round about the room; some crying silently, some watching their mother, who paused every now and then in herwork to wipe away tears which quickly returned.
But there was one whom Juliet missed.
"Mother," she said, as Mrs. Mitchell's arms clasped closely round her, "where is baby?"
Tears poured down from the mother's eyes. "Oh, baby, baby, our darling baby is gone! He was took with the croup yesterday morning, and he just went off in the evening. There was too many of you, and now he's gone!"
A sad silence fell upon the room. Thomas Mitchell moaned in his sleep, as if his dreams were painful. Outside in the street there was a sound of angry voices—two women quarrelling. Mrs. Webster had once had a baby of her own; it had died. She felt, she knew, all that Mrs. Mitchell was feeling now.
The bits of black on which the mother was at work were poor and skimpy, but they betokened a real sorrow. And though Mrs. Mitchell knew that the "home for little children" was far, far better for them than the busy, hard world, yet she could not bring her heart to be thankful that baby was taken; all that she could say was, "Thy will be done!"
In the mortuary belonging to the church lay the little, thin, pale body of baby Thomas Mitchell. Life, though short, had been very hard for him, and he had gone out of it at the firstcall from his Father in heaven—at the first sound of that voice which is sweeter and more drawing than the voice of a mother.
Other children had gone before him; but because he was the baby his loss was more acutely felt than that of the others had been. Juliet sat and thought of the many times she had bumped his tender head against the wall, and how often she had let him slip off her lap, or left him lying in the rain or in the fierce sunshine. And now the darling baby had died, and she away from home! She had not watched his last sigh, she had not given him one farewell kiss! Already he was in his tiny coffin, and she would never in this life see him again, save in those blessed dreams which now and then restore to us for a time our loved and lost ones.
Juliet could not have explained—perhaps it could not be explained—how it was that the death of baby during her absence seemed to be connected with her bad conduct. It is certain that this sudden shock affected her greatly. It was, as it were, a break in her life; her old ill-tempered, unteachable childhood went into the past, and a gentle womanhood sprang up in the future. For the present there was a sad, humble, penitent girl.
When she began once more to know what was going on in that room, she found that Mrs.Webster was telling Mrs. Mitchell, in very mild terms, of the reasons why Juliet was sent home.
"I am quite a stranger," said the lady, "and I feel myself an intruder in your time of sorrow. You have my deepest sympathy. And I trust that Juliet will henceforth do better. She has had some severe lessons. Do you think your husband would be stronger if he lived in the country?"
"Yes, ma'am; the doctor at the dispensary says that country air would do wonders for him. But then he can't leave his work; it is no use to live in the country and have a good appetite if you have no means of getting victuals for your appetite."
"No, of course not," said Mrs. Webster.
"We are doing better now," continued Mrs. Mitchell. "He's at work again, and Miss Sutton—that's a kind lady—is trying to bring us women face to face with our employers and no middleman between. But I don't know how it will act. I've done work for Miss Sutton and her friends, but the same people don't keep on wanting mantles. I could have borne anything if I hadn't to make up crape for ourselves!"
Mrs. Webster pressed Mrs. Mitchell's hand kindly, and took her leave.