CHAPTER II.A YOUNG QUEEN.
It did not work well as far as Polly was concerned. Whatever she was at home, whatever her faults and failings, whatever her wild vagaries, or unreasonable moods, she somehow or other always managed to be first. First in play, first in naughtiness, first at her lessons, the best musician, the best artist, the best housekeeper, the best originator of sports and frolics on all occasions, was Polly Maybright. From this position, however, she was suddenly dethroned. It was quite impossible for Polly to be first when Flower was in the room.
Flower Dalrymple had the ways and manners of a young queen. She was imperious, often ungracious, seldom obliging, but she had a knack of getting people to think first of her, of saying the sort of things which drew attention, and of putting every other little girl with whom she came into contact completely in the shade.
In reality, Polly was a prettier girl than Flower. Her eyes were brighter, her features more regular. But just as much in reality Polly could not hold a candle to Flower, for she had a sort of a languorous, slumberous, grace, which exactly suited her name; there was a kind of etherealness about her, an absolutely out-of-the-common look, which made people glance at her again and again, each time to discover how very lovely she was.
Flower was a perfect contrast to David, being as fair as he was dark. Her face had a delicate, creamy shade, her eyes were large and light blue, the lashes and eyebrows being only a shade or two darker than her long, straight rather dull-looking, yellow hair. She always wore her hair straight down her back; she was very willowy and pliant in figure, and had something of the grace and coloring of a daffodil.
Flower had not been a week in the Maybright family before she contrived that all the arrangements in the house should be more or less altered to suit her convenience. She made no apparent complaint, and never put her wishes into words, still she contrived to have things done to please her. For instance, long before that week was out, Polly found herself deprived of the seat she had always occupied at meals by her father’s side. Flower liked to sit near the Doctor, therefore she did so; she liked to slip her hand into his between the courses, and to look into his face with her wide-open, pathetic, sweet eyes. Flower could not touch coffee at breakfast, therefore by common consent the whole family adopted tea. In the morning-room Flower established herself in mother’s deep arm-chair, hitherto consecrated by all rights and usages to Helen. As to Polly, she was simply dethroned from her pedestal, her wittiest remarks fell flat,her raciest stories were received with languid interest. What were they compared to the thrilling adventures which the young Australian could tell when she pleased! Not, indeed, that Flower often pleased, she was not given to many words, her nature was thoroughly indolent and selfish, and only for one person would she ever really rouse and exert herself. This person was David; he worshipped her, and she loved him as deeply as it was in her nature to love any one. To all appearance, however, it mattered very little who, or how Flower loved. On all hands, every one fell in love with her. Even Polly resigned her favorite seat for her, even Helen looked without pain at mother’s beloved chair when Flower’s lissome figure filled it. The younger children were forever offering flowers and fruit at her shrine. Nurse declared her a bonny, winsome thing, and greatest honor of all, allowed her to play with little Pearl, the baby, for a few minutes, when the inclination seized her. Before she was a week in the house, not a servant in the place but would have done anything for her, and even the Doctor so far succumbed to her charms as to pronounce her a gracious and lovable creature.
“Although I can’t make her out,” he often said to himself, “I have an odd instinct which tells me that there is the sleeping lioness or the wild-cat hidden somewhere beneath all that languid, gracious carelessness. Poor little girl! she has managed to captivate us all, but I should not be surprised if she turned out more difficult and troublesome to manage than the whole of my seven daughters put together.”
As Flower and David had been sent from Australia especially to be under the care and guidance of Mrs. Maybright, the Doctor felt more and more uncertain as to the expediency of keeping the children.
“It is difficult enough to manage a girl like Polly,” he said to himself; “but when another girl comes to the house who is equally audacious and untamed—for my Polly is an untamed creature when all’s said and done—how is a poor half-blind old doctor like myself to keep these two turbulent spirits in order? I am dreadfully afraid the experiment won’t work; and yet—and yet £400 a year is sadly needed to add to the family purse just now.”
The Doctor was pacing up and down his library while he meditated. The carpet in this part of the room was quite worn from the many times he walked up and down it. Like many another man, when he was perplexed or anxious he could not keep still. There came a light tap at the library door.
“Come in!” said the Doctor; and to his surprise Flower, looking more like a tall yellow daffodil than ever, in a soft dress of creamy Indian silk, opened the door and took a step or two into the room.
She looked half-shy, half-bold—a word would have senther flying, or a word drawn her close to the kind Doctor’s side.
“Come here, my little girl,” he said, “and tell me what you want.”
Flower would have hated any one else to speak of her as a little girl, but she pushed back her hair now, and looked with less hesitation and more longing at the Doctor.
“I thought you’d be here—I ventured to come,” she said.
“Yes, yes; there’s no venturing in the matter. Take my arm, and walk up and down with me.”
“May I, really?”
“Of course you may, puss. Now I’ll warrant anything you have walked many a carpet bare with your own father. See! this is almost in holes; those are Polly’s steps, these are mine.”
“Oh—yes—well, father isn’t that sort of man. I’ll take your arm if I may, Doctor. Thank you. I didn’t think—I don’t exactly know how to say what I want to say.”
“Take time, my dear child; and it is no matter how you put the words.”
“When I heard that there was no mother here, I did not want to stay long. That was before I knew you. Now—I came to say it—I do want to stay, and so does David.”
“But you don’t really know me at all, Flower.”
“Perhaps not really; but still enough to want to stay. May I stay?”
Flower’s charming face looked up inquiringly.
“May I stay?” she repeated, earnestly. “I do wish it!—very much indeed.”
Dr. Maybright was silent for a moment.
“I was thinking about this very point when you knocked at the door,” he said, presently. “I was wondering if you two children could stay. I want to keep you, and yet I own I am rather fearful of the result. You see, there are so many motherless girls and boys in this house.”
“But we are motherless, too; you should be sorry for us; you should wish to keep us.”
“I am very sorry for you. I have grown to a certain extent already to love you. You interest me much; still, I must be just to you and to my own children. You are not a common, everyday sort of girl, Flower. I don’t wish to flatter you, and I am not going to say whether you are nice or the reverse. But there is no harm in my telling you that you are out of the common. It is probable that you may be extremely difficult to manage, and it is possible that your disposition may—may clash with those of some of the members of my own household. I don’t say that this will be the case, mind, only it is possible. In that case, what would you expect me to do?”
“To keep me,” said Flower, boldly, “and, if necessary, send away the member of the household, for I am a motherless girl, and I have come from a long way off to be with you.”
“I don’t quite think I can do that, Flower. There are many good mothers in England who would train you and love you, and there are many homes where you might do better than here. My own children are placed here by God himself, and I cannot turn them out. Still—what is the matter, my dear child?”
“I think you are unjust; I thought you would be so glad when I said I wanted to stay.”
“So I am glad; and for the present you are here. How long you remain depends on yourself. I have no intention of sending you away at present. I earnestly wish to keep you.”
Another tap came to the study door.
“If you please, sir,” said Alice, “blind Mrs. Jones is in the kitchen, and wants to know most particular if she can see you.”
“How ridiculous!” said Flower, laughing.
“Show Mrs. Jones in here, Alice,” said the Doctor.
His own face had grown a shade or two paler.
“Blind people often speak in that way, Flower,” he said, with a certain intonation in his voice which made her regard him earnestly.
The memory of a rumor which had reached her ears with regard to the Doctor’s own sight flashed before her. She stooped suddenly, and with an impulsive, passionate gesture kissed his hand.
Outside the room David was waiting.
“Well, Flower, well?” he asked, with intense eagerness.
“I spoke to him,” said Flower. “We are here on sufferance, that’s all. He is the dearest man in all the world, but he is actually afraid of me.”
“You are rather fierce at times, you know, Flower. Did you tell him about—about——”
“About what, silly boy?”
“About the passions. You know, Flower, we agreed that he had better know.”
A queer steely light came into Flower’s blue eyes.
“I didn’t speak of them,” she said. “If I said anything of that sort I’d soon be packed away. I expect he’s in an awful fright about that precious Polly of his.”
“But Polly is nice,” interposed David.
“Oh, yes, just because she has a rather good-looking face you go over to her side. I’m not at all sure that I like her. Anyhow, I’m not going to play second fiddle to her. There now, Dave, go and play. We’re here on sufferance, so be on your good behavior. As to me, you need not be the least uneasy. I wish to remain at Sleepy Hollow, so, of course, the passions won’t come. Go and play, Dave.”
Firefly called across the lawn. David bounded out of the open window, and Flower went slowly up to her own room.
There came a lovely day toward the end of October; St. Martin’s summer was abroad, and the children, with the Doctor’spermission, had arranged to take a long expedition across one of the southern moors in search of late blackberries. They took their dinner with them, and George, the under-gardener, accompanied the little party for protection. Nurse elected, as usual, to stay at home with baby, for nothing would induce her to allow this treasured little mortal out of her own keeping; but the Doctor promised, if possible, to join the children at Troublous Times Castle at two o’clock for dinner. This old ruin was at the extreme corner of one of the great commons, and was a very favorite resort for picnics, as it still contained the remains of a fine old banqueting-hall, where in stormy or uncertain weather a certain amount of shelter could be secured.
The children started off early, in capital spirits. A light wind was blowing; the sky was almost cloudless. The tints of late autumn were still abroad in great glory, and the young faces looked fresh, careless, and happy.
Just at the last moment, as they were leaving the house, an idea darted through Polly’s brain.
“Let’s have Maggie,” she said. “I’ll go round by the village and fetch her. She would enjoy coming with us so much, and it would take off her terror of the moor. Do you know, Helen, she is such a silly thing that she has been quite in a state of alarm ever since the day we went to the hermit’s hut. I won’t be a moment running to fetch Mag; do let’s have her. Firefly, you can come with me.”
Maggie, who now resided with her mother, not having yet found another situation—for Mrs. Power had absolutely declined to have her back in the kitchen—was a favorite with all the children. They were pleased with Polly’s proposal, and a chorus of “Yes, by all means, let’s have Maggie!” rose in the air.
Flower was standing a little apart; she wore a dark green close-fitting cloth dress; on her graceful golden head was a small green velvet cap. She was picking a late rose to pieces, and waiting for the others with a look of languid indifference on her face. Now she roused herself, and asked in a slightly weary voice:
“Who is Maggie?”
“Maggie?” responded Helen, “she was our kitchenmaid; we are all very fond of her—Polly especially.”
“Fond of a kitchen-maid? I don’t suppose you mean that, Helen,” said Flower. “A kitchen-maid’s only a servant.”
“I certainly mean it,” said Helen, with a little warmth. “I am more or less fond of all our servants, and Maggie used to be a special favorite.”
“How extraordinary!” said Flower. “The English nation have very queer and plebeian ways about them; it’s very plebeian to take the least notice of servants, except to order them to obey you.”
“On the contrary,” retorted Polly; “it’s the sign of a truelady or gentleman to be perfectly courteous to their dependents, and if they deserve love, to give it to them. I’m fond of Maggie; she’s a good little girl, and she shall come to our picnic. Come along, Firefly.”
“I certainly will have nothing to say to Polly while she associates with a servant,” said Flower, slowly, and with great apparent calmness. “I don’t suppose we need all wait for her here. She can follow with the servant when she gets her. I suppose Polly’s whims are not to upset the whole party.”
“Polly will very likely catch us up at the cross-roads,” said Helen, in a pleasant voice. “Come, Flower, you won’t really be troubled with poor little Maggie; she will spend her day probably with George, and will help him to wash up our dinner-things after we have eaten. Come, don’t be vexed, Flower.”
“Ivexed!” said Flower. “You are quite mistaken. I don’t intend to have anything to say to Polly while she chooses a kitchen-maid for her friend, but I dare say the rest of you can entertain me. Now, Mabel and Dolly, shall I tell you what we did that dark night when David and I stole out through the pantry window?”
“Oh, yes, yes!” exclaimed the twins. The others all clustered round eagerly.
Flower had a very distinct voice, and when she roused herself she could really be eloquent. A daring little adventure which she and her brother had experienced lost nothing in the telling, and when Polly, Firefly, and Maggie, joined the group, they found themselves taken very little notice of, for all the other children, even Helen, were hanging on Flower’s words.
“Oh, I say, that isn’t fair!” exclaimed Polly, whose spirits were excellent. “You’re telling a story, Flower, and Firefly and I have missed it. Maggie loves stories, too; don’t you, Mag? Do begin again, please, Flower, please do!”
Flower did not even pretend to hear Polly’s words—she walked straight on, gesticulating a little now and then, now and then raising her hand in a slightly dramatic manner. Her clear voice floated back to Polly as she walked forward, the center of an eager, worshipping, entranced audience.
Polly’s own temper was rather hasty, she felt her face flushing, angry words were bubbling to her lips, and she would have flown after the little party who were so utterly ignoring her, if David had not suddenly slipped back and put his hand on her arm.
“I know the story,” he said; “so I needn’t stay to listen. She’s adding to it awfully. We didn’t use any ropes, the window is only three feet from the ground, and the awful howling and barking of the mastiff was made by the shabbiest little cur. Flower is lovely, but she does dress up her stories. I love Flower, but I’ll walk with you now, if you’ll let me, Polly.”
“You’re very kind, David,” said Polly. “But I don’t know that I want any one to walk with me, except Maggie. I think Flower was very rude just now. Oh, you can stay if you like, David—I don’t mind, one way or another. Isn’t this south moor lovely, Maggie? Aren’t you glad I asked you to come with us?”
“Well, yes, Miss, I be. It was good-natured of you, Miss Polly, only if there’s stories a-going, I’d like to be in at them. I does love narrations of outlandish places, Miss. Oh, my word, and is that the little foreign gentleman? It is a disappointment as I can’t ’ear what the young lady’s a-telling of.”
“Well, Maggie, you needn’t be discontented.Iam not hearing this wonderful story, either. David, what are you nudging me for?”
“Send her to walk with George,” whispered David. “I want to say something to you so badly, Polly.”
Polly frowned. She did not feel particularly inclined to oblige any one just now, but David had a pleading way of his own; he squeezed her arm affectionately, and looked into her face with a world of beseeching in his big black eyes. After all it was no very difficult matter to get at Polly’s warm heart. She looked over her shoulder.
“George, will you give Maggie a seat beside you,” she said. “No, none of the rest of us want to drive. Come on, David. Now, David, what is it?”
“It’s about Flower,” said David. “She—she—you don’t none of you know Flower yet.”
“Oh, I am not sure of that,” replied Polly, speaking on purpose in a very careless tone. “I suppose she’s much like other girls. She’s rather pretty, of course, and has nice ways with her. I made stories about you both, but you’re not a bit like anything I thought of. In some ways you’re nicer, in some not so nice. Why, what is the matter, David? What are you staring at me so hard for?”
“Because you’re all wrong,” responded David. “You don’t know Flower. She’s not like other girls; not a bit. There were girls at Ballarat, and she wasn’t like them. But no one wondered at that, for they were rough, and not like real ladies. And there were girls on board the big ship we came over in, and they weren’t rough, but Flower wasn’t a bit like them either. And she’s not like any of you, Polly, although I’m sure you are nice, and Helen is sweet, and Fly is a little brick. Flower is not like any other girl I have ever seen.”
“She must be an oddity, then,” said Polly. “I hate oddities. Do let’s walk a little faster, David.”
“You are wrong again,” persisted David, quickening his steps. “An oddity is some one to laugh at, but no one has ever dreamed of laughing at Flower. She is just herself, like no one else in the world. No, you don’t any of you know her yet. I suppose you are every one of you thinkingthat she’s the very nicest and cleverest and perfectest girl you ever met?”
“I’m sure we are not,” said Polly. “I think, for my part, there has been a great deal too much fuss made about her. I’m getting tired of her airs, and I think she was very rude just now.”
“Oh, don’t, Polly, you frighten me. I want to tell you something so badly. Will you treat it as a great, enormous secret? will you never reveal it, Polly?”
“What a queer boy you are,” said Polly. “No, I won’t tell. What’s the mystery?”
“It’s this. Flower is sometimes—sometimes—oh, it’s dreadful to have to tell!—Flower is sometimes not nice.”
Polly’s eyes danced.
“You’re a darling, David!” she said. “Of course, that sister of yours is not perfect. I’d hate her if she was.”
“But it isn’t that,” said David. “It’s so difficult to tell. When Flower isn’t nice, it’s not a small thing, it’s—oh, she’s awful! Polly, I don’t want any of you ever to see Flower in a passion; you’d be frightened, oh, you would indeed. We were all dreadfully unhappy at Ballarat when Flower was in a passion, and lately we tried not to get her into one. That’s what I want you to do, Polly; I want you to try; I want you to see that she is not vexed.”
“I like that,” said Polly. “Am I to be on my ‘P’s and Q’s’ for this Miss Flower of yours? Now, David, what do you mean by a great passion? I’m rather hot myself. Come, you saw me very cross about the lemonade yesterday; is Flower worse than that? What fun it must be to see her!”
“Don’t!” said David, turning pale. “You wouldn’t speak in that way, Polly, if you knew. What you did yesterday like Flower? Why, I didn’t notice you at all. Flower’s passions are—are—— But I can’t speak of them, Polly.”
“Then why did you tell me?” said Polly. “I can’t help her getting into rages, if she’s so silly.”
“Oh, yes, you can, and that’s why I spoke to you. She’s a little vexed now, about your having brought the—the kitchen-maid here. I know well she’s vexed, because she’s extra polite with every one else. That’s a way she has at first. I don’t suppose she’ll speak to you, Polly; but oh, Polly, I will love you so much, I’ll do anything in all the world for you, if only you’ll send Maggie home!”
“What are you dreaming of?” said Polly. “Because Flower is an ill tempered, proud, silly girl, am I to send poor little Maggie away? No, David, if your sister has a bad temper, she must learn to control it. She is living in England now, and she must put up with our English ways; we are always kind to our servants.”
“Then it can’t be helped,” said David. “You’ll remember that I warned you—you’ll be sorry afterwards! Hullo, Flower—yes, Flower, I’m coming.”
He flew from Polly’s side, going boldly over to what the little girl was now pleased to call the ranks of the enemy. She felt sorry for a moment, for Firefly had long since deserted her. Then she retraced her steps, and walked by Maggie’s side for the rest of the time.
CHAPTER III.NOT LIKE OTHERS.
It was still early when the children reached Troublous Times Castle. Dr. Maybright would not be likely to join them for nearly an hour. They had walked fast, and Polly, at least, felt both tired and cross. When the twins ran up to her and assured her with much enthusiasm that they had never had a more delightful walk, she turned from them with a little muttered “Pshaw!” Polly’s attentions now to Maggie were most marked, and if this young person were not quite one of the most obtuse in existence, it is possible she might have felt slightly embarrassed.
“While we’re waiting for father,” exclaimed Polly, speaking aloud, and in that aggressive tone which had not been heard from her lips since the night of the supper in the attic—“while we’re waiting for father we’ll get the banqueting-hall ready. Maggie and I will see to this, but any one who likes to join us can. We don’t require any assistance, but if it gives pleasure to any of the others to see us unpack the baskets, now is the time for them to say the word.”
“But, of course, we’re all going to get the dinner ready,” exclaimed Dolly and Katie, in voices of consternation. “What a ridiculous way you are talking, Polly! This is all our affair; half the fun is getting the dinner ready. Isn’t it, Nell?”
“Yes, of course,” said Helen, in her pleasant, bright voice. “We’ll all do as much as we can do to make the banqueting-hall ready for father. Now, let’s get George to take the hampers there at once; and, Flower, I thought, perhaps, you would help me to touch up the creepers here and there, they do look so lovely falling over that ruined west window. Come, Flower, now let’s all of us set to work without any more delay.”
“Yes, Flower, and you know you have such a way of making things look sweet,” said David, taking his sister’s hand and kissing it.
She put her arm carelessly round his neck, stooped down, and pressed her lips to his brow, then said in that light, arch tone, which she had used all day, “David is mistaken. I can’t make things look sweet, and I’m not coming to the banqueting-hall at present.”
There was a pointed satire in the two last words. Flower’s big blue eyes rested carelessly on Maggie, then they traveled to where Polly stood, and a fine scorn curled her short, sensitive upper lip. The words she had used were nothing, buther expressive glance meant a good deal. Polly refused to see the world of entreaty on David’s face—she threw down her challenge with equal scorn and a good deal of comic dignity.
“It’s a very good thing, then, you’re not coming to the banqueting-hall, Flower,” she said. “For we don’t want people there who have no taste. I suppose it’s because you are an Australian, for in England even the cottagers know a little about how to make picnics look pretty. Maggie is a cottager at present, as she’s out of a situation, so it’s lucky we’ve brought her. Now, as every one else wants to come, let them, and don’t let’s waste any more time, or when father comes, we really will have nothing ready for him to eat.”
“Very well,” said Flower. “Then I shall take a walk by myself. I wish to be by myself. No, David you are not to come with me, I forbid it.”
For a quarter of a second a queer steely light filled her blue eyes. David shrank from her glance, and followed the rest of the party down a flight of steps which led also into the old banqueting-hall.
“You’ve done it now,” he whispered to Polly. “You’ll be very, very sorry by-and-by, and you’ll remember then that I warned you.”
“I really think you’re the most tiresome boy,” said Polly. “You want to make mysteries out of nothing. I don’t see that Flower is particularly passionate; she’s a little bit sarcastic, and she likes to say nasty, scathing things, but you don’t suppose I mind her! She’ll soon come to her senses when she sees that we are none of us petting her, or bowing down to her. I expect that you and your father have spoiled that Flower of yours over in Ballarat.”
“You don’t know Flower a bit,” responded David. “I warned you. You’ll remember that presently. Flower not passionate! Why, she was white with passion when she went away. Well, you wait and see.”
“I wish you’d stop talking,” responded Polly, crossly. “We’ll never have things ready if you chatter so, and try to perplex me. There’s poor Fly almost crying over that big hamper. Please, David, go and help her to get the knives, and forks, and glasses out, and don’t break any glasses, for we’re always fined if we break glasses at picnics.”
David moved away slowly. He was an active little fellow as a rule, but now there seemed to be a weight over him. The vivaciousness had left his handsome dark little face; once he turned round and looked at Polly with a volume of reproach in his eyes.
She would not meet his eyes, she was bending over her own hamper, and was laughing and chatting gayly with every one who came within her reach. The moment Flower’s influence was removed Polly became once more the ringleader of all the fun. Once more she was appealed to, her advice asked, her directions followed. She could not helpadmitting to herself that she liked the change, and for the first time a conscious feeling of active dislike to Flower took possession of her. What right had this strange girl to come and take the lead in everything? No, she was neither very pretty nor very agreeable; she was a conceited, ill-tempered, proud creature, and it was Polly’s duty, of course it was Polly’s duty, to see that she was not humored. Was there anything so unreasonable and monstrous as her dislike to poor little Maggie? Poor little harmless Maggie, who had never done her an ill-turn in her life. Really David had been too absurd when he proposed that Maggie should be sent home. David was a nice boy enough, but he was not to suppose that every one was to bow down to his Queen Flower. Ridiculous! let her go into passions if she liked, she would soon be tamed and brought to her senses when she had been long enough in England.
Polly worked herself up into quite a genuine little temper of her own, as she thought, and she now resolved, simply and solely for the purpose of teasing Flower, that Maggie should dine with them all, and have a seat of honor near herself. When she had carelessly thought of her coming to the picnic, she, of course, like all the others, had intended that Maggie and George should eat their dinner together after the great meal was over; and even Helen shook her head now when Polly proposed in her bright audacious way that Maggie should sit near her, in one of the best positions, where she could see the light flickering through the ivy, which nearly covered the beautiful west window.
“As you like, of course, Polly,” responded Helen. “But I do think it is putting Maggie a little out of her place. Perhaps father won’t like it, and I’m sure Flower won’t.”
“I’ll ask father myself, when he arrives,” answered Polly, choosing to ignore the latter part of Helen’s speech.
The banqueting-hall, which was a perfect ruin at one end, was still covered over at the other. And it was in this portion, full of picturesque half-lights and fascinating dark corners, that the children had laid out their repast. The west window was more than fifty feet distant. It was nearly closed in with an exquisite tracery of ivy; but as plenty of light poured into the ruin from the open sky overhead, this mattered very little, and but added to the general effect. The whole little party were very busy, and no one worked harder than Polly, and no one’s laugh was more merry. Now and then, it is true, an odd memory and a queer sensation of failure came over her. Was she really—really to-day, at least—trying to climb successfully the highest mountain? She stifled the little voice speaking in her heart, delighted her brothers and sisters, and even caused a smile to play round David’s grave lips as she made one witty remark after another. Firefly in particular was in ecstasies with her beloved sister, and when the Doctor at last appeared on the scene the fun was at its height.
The moment he entered the banqueting-hall Polly went up to him, put on her archest and most pleading expression, and said in a tone of inquiry:
“It’s all so delightful, and such a treat for her. And you don’t mind, do you father?”
“I don’t know that I mind anything at this moment, Polly, for I am hungry, and your viands look tempting of the tempting. Unless you bid me not to come to the feast, I shall quarrel with no other suggestion.”
“Oh! you darlingest of fathers; then you won’t be angry if poor Maggie sits next me; and has her dinner with us? She is a little afraid of the moor, and I wanted to cure her, so I brought her to-day, and she will be so happy if she can sit next me at dinner.”
“Put her where you please, my dear; we are not sitting on forms or standing on ceremony at present. And now to dinner, to dinner, children, for I must be off again in an hour.”
No one noticed, not even David, that while the Doctor was speaking a shadow stole up and remained motionless by the crumbling stairs of the old banqueting-hall; no one either saw when it glided away. Polly laughed, and almost shouted; every one, Flower excepted, took their places as best they could on the uneven floor of the hall; the white tablecloth was spread neatly in the middle. Every one present was exceedingly uncomfortable physically, and yet each person expressed him or herself in tones of rapture, and said never was such food eaten, or such a delightful dinner served.
For a long time Flower was not even missed; then David’s grave face attracted the Doctor’s attention.
“What is the matter, my lad?” he said. “Have you a headache? Don’t you enjoy thisal frescosort of entertainment? And, by the way, I don’t see your sister. Helen, my dear, do you know where Flower is? Did not she come with you?”
“Of course she did, father; how stupid and careless of me never to have missed her.”
Helen jumped up from the tailor-like position she was occupying on the floor.
“Flower said she would take a little walk,” she continued. “And I must say I forgot all about her. She ought to have been back ages ago.”
“Flower went by herself for a walk on the moor!” echoed the Doctor. “But that isn’t safe; she may lose her way, or get frightened. Why did you let her go, children?”
No one answered; a little cloud seemed to have fallen on the merry party. Polly again had a pinprick of uneasiness in her heart, and a vivid recollection of the highest mountain which she was certainly not trying to climb.
The Doctor said he would go at once to look for Flower.
CHAPTER IV.A YOUNG AUSTRALIAN.
David was quite right when he said his sister was not like other girls. There was a certain element of wildness in her; she had sweet manners, a gracious bearing, an attractive face; but in some particulars she was untamed. Never had that terrible strong temper of hers been curbed. More than one of the servants in the old home at Ballarat had learnt to dread it. When Flower stormed, her father invariably left home, and David shut himself up in his own room. Her mother, an affectionate but not particularly strong-minded woman, alone possessed sufficient courage to approach the storm-tossed little fury. Mrs. Dalrymple had a certain power of soothing the little girl, but even she never attempted to teach the child the smallest lessons of self-control.
This unchecked, unbridled temper grew and strengthened with Flower’s growth. When under its influence she was a transformed being, and David had good reason to be afraid of her.
In addition to an ungovernable temper, Flower was proud; she possessed the greatest pride of all, that of absolute ignorance. She believed firmly in caste; had she lived in olden days in America, she would have been a very cruel mistress of slaves. Yet with it all Flower had an affectionate heart; she was generous, loyal, but she was so thoroughly a spoiled and untrained creature that her good qualities were nearly lost under the stronger sway of her bad ones.
After her mother’s death Flower had fretted so much that she had grown shadowy and ill. It was then her father conceived the idea of sending her and David to an English family to train and educate. He could not manage Flower, he could not educate David. The Maybrights were heard of through a mutual friend, and Flower was reconciled to the thought of leaving the land and home of her birth because she was told she was going to another mother. She dried her eyes at this thought, and was tolerably cheerful during the voyage over. On reaching England the news of Mrs. Maybright’s death was broken to her. Again Flower stormed and raged; she gave poor little David a dreadful night, but in the morning her tears were dried, her smile had returned, and she went down to Sleepy Hollow with the Doctor in fairly good spirits.
The young Maybrights were all on their best behavior—Flower was on hers, and until the day of the picnic all went well.
It did not take a great deal to rouse first the obstinate pride of this young Australian, and then her unbridled passions. Associate with a servant? No, that she would never, never do. Show Polly that she approved of her conduct?Not while her own name was Flower Dalrymple. She let all the other happy children go down to the banqueting-hall without her, and strode away, miserable at heart, choking with rage and fury.
The Dalrymples were very wealthy people, and Flower’s home in Ballarat was furnished with every luxury. Notwithstanding this, the little girl had never been in a truly refined dwelling-house until she took up her abode in old-fashioned Sleepy Hollow. Flower had taken a great fancy to Helen, and she already warmly loved Dr. Maybright. She was wandering over the moor now, a miserable, storm-tossed little personage, when she saw his old-fashioned gig and white pony “Rowney” approaching. That old gig and the person who sat in it—for Dr. Maybright drove himself—began to act on the heart of the child with a curious magnetic force. Step by step they caused her to turn, until she reached Troublous Times Castle almost as soon as the Doctor. She did not know why she was coming back, for she had not the remotest idea of yielding her will to Polly’s. Still she had a kind of instinct that the Doctor would set things right. By this she meant that he would give her her own way and banish Maggie from the scene of festivity.
The banqueting-hall at the old castle could be reached by two ways: you might approach it quite easily over the green sward, or you might enter a higher part of the castle, and come to it down broken steps.
The Doctor chose one way of approaching the scene of the feast, Flower another. She was about to descend when she heard voices: Polly was eagerly asking permission for Maggie to dine with them; the Doctor, in his easy, genial tones, was giving it to her. That was enough. If Flower had never known before what absolute hatred was like, she knew it now. She hated Polly; ungovernable passion mounted to her brain, filled her eyes, lent wings to her feet; she turned and fled.
Although the month was October, it was still very hot in the middle of the day on the open moor. Flower, however, was accustomed to great heat in her native home, and the full rays of the sun did not impede her flight. She was so tall and slight and willowy that she was a splendid runner, but the moor was broken and rough, interspersed here and there with deep bracken, here and there with heather, here and there again with rank clumps of undergrowth. The young girl, half blinded with rage and passion, did not see the sharp points of the rocks or the brambles in her path. Once or twice she fell. After her second fall she was so much bruised and hurt, that she was absolutely forced to sit still in the midst of the yellow-and-brown bracken. It was in a bristling, withered state, but it still stood thick and high, and formed a kind of screen all round Flower as she sat in it. She took off her cap, and idly fanned her hot face with it; her yellow head could scarcely be distinguishedfrom the orange-and-gold tints of the bracken which surrounded her.
In this way the Doctor, who was now anxiously looking for Flower, missed her, for he drove slowly by, not a hundred yards from her hiding-place.
As Flower sat and tried to cool herself, she began to reflect. Her passion was not in the least over; on the contrary, its most dangerous stage had now begun. As she thought, there grew up stronger and stronger in her heart a great hatred for Polly. From the first, Flower had not taken so warmly to Polly as she had done to Helen. The fact was, these girls were in many ways too much alike. Had it been Polly’s fate to be born and brought up in Ballarat, she might have been Flower over again. She might have been even worse than Flower, for she was cleverer; on the other hand, had Flower been trained by Polly’s wise and loving mother, she might have been a better girl than Polly.
As it was, however, these two must inevitably clash. They were like two queen bees in the same hive; they each wanted the same place. It only needed a trifle to bring Flower’s uneasy, latent feeling against Polly to perfection. The occasion arose, the match had fired the easily ignited fuel, and Flower sat now and wondered how she could best revenge herself on Polly.
After a time, stiff and limping, for she had hurt her ankle, she recommenced her walk across the moor. She had not the least idea where her steps were leading her. She was tired, her feet ached, and her great rage had sufficiently cooled to make her remember distinctly that she had eaten no dinner; still, she plodded on. From the time she had left Troublous Times Castle she had not encountered an individual, but now, as she stepped forward, a man suddenly arose from his lair in the grass and confronted her. He was a black-eyed, unkempt, uncouth-looking person, and any other girl would have been very much afraid of him. He put his arms akimbo, a disagreeable smile crossed his face, and he instantly placed himself in such a position as completely to bar the girl’s path.
An English girl would have turned pale at such an apparition in so lonely a place, but Flower had seen bushmen in her day, and did not perceive anything barbarous or outlandish in the man’s appearance.
“I’m glad I’ve met you,” she said, in her clear dulcet voice, “for you can tell me where I am. I want to get to Sleepy Hollow, Dr. Maybright’s place—am I far away?”
“Two miles, as the crow flies,” responded the man.
“But I can’t go as the crow flies. What is the best way to walk? Can’t you show me?”
“No-a. I be sleepy. Have you got a coin about you, Miss?”
“Money? No. I left my purse at home. I have not got a watch either, nor a chain, but I have got a little ring. Itis very thin, but it is pure gold, and I am fond of it. I will give it to you if you will take me the very nearest way to Sleepy Hollow.”
The man grinned again. “Youbea girl!” he said, in a tone of admiration. “Yes, I’ll take you; come.”
He turned on his heel, shambled on in front, and Flower followed.
In this manner the two walked for some time. Suddenly they mounted a ridge, and then the man pointed to where the Doctor’s house stood, snug in its own inclosure.
“Thank you,” said Flower.
She took a little twist of gold off her smallest finger, dropped it into the man’s dirty, open palm, and began quickly to descend the ridge in the direction of the Hollow. It was nearly three o’clock when she entered the cool, wide entrance-hall. The house felt still and restful. Flower acknowledged to herself that she was both tired and hungry, but her main idea to revenge herself on Polly was stronger than either fatigue or hunger. She walked into the dining-room, cut a thick slice from a home-made loaf of bread, broke off a small piece to eat at once, and put the rest into her pocket. A dish of apples stood near; she helped herself to two, stowed them away with the bread in the capacious pocket of her green cloth dress, and then looked around her. She had got to Polly’s home, but how was she to accomplish her revenge? How strike Polly through her most vulnerable point?
She walked slowly upstairs, meditating as she went. Her own little bower-like room stood open; she entered it. Polly’s hands had been mainly instrumental in giving choice touches to this room; Polly’s favorite blue vase stood filled with flowers on the dressing-table, and a lovely photograph of the Sistine Madonna which belonged to Polly hung over the mantelpiece. Flower did not look at any of these things. She unlocked a small drawer in a dainty inlaid cabinet, which she had brought with her from Ballarat, took out two magnificent diamond rings, a little watch set with jewels, and a small purse, very dainty in itself, but which only held a few shillings. She put all these treasures into a small black velvet bag, fastened the bag round her neck by a narrow gold chain, and then leaving her room, stood once more in a contemplative attitude on the landing.
She was ready now for flight herself, for when she had revenged herself on Polly, she must certainly fly. But how should she accomplish her revenge? what should she do? She thought hard. She knew she had but little time, for the Doctor and the children might return at any moment.
In the distance she heard the merry laugh of Polly’s little sister, Pearl. Flower suddenly colored, her eyes brightened, and she said to herself:
“That is a good idea; I will go and have a talk with Nurse. I can find out somehow from Nurse what Polly likes best.”
She ran at once to the nurseries.
“My dear Miss Flower,” exclaimed Nurse. “Why, wherever have you been, Miss? I thought you was with the others. Well! you do look tired and fagged.”
“I have walked home,” said Flower, carelessly. “I didn’t care to be out so long; picnics are nothing to me; I’m accustomed to that sort of thing on a big scale at Ballarat, you know. I walked home, and then I thought I’d have a chat with you, if you didn’t mind.”
“For sure, dear. Sit you down in that easy chair, Miss Flower; and would you like to hold baby for a bit? Isn’t she sweet to-day? I must say I never saw a more knowing child for her age.”
“She is very pretty,” said Flower, carelessly. “But I don’t think I’ll hold her, Nurse. I’m not accustomed to babies, and I’m afraid she might break or something. Do you know I never had a baby in my arms in my life? I don’t remember David when he was tiny. No, I never saw anything so young and soft and tiny as this little Pearl; sheisvery pretty.”
“Eh, dear lamb,” said Nurse, squeezing the baby to her heart, “she’s the very sweetest of the sweet. Now you surprise me, Miss Flower, for I’d have said you’d be took up tremendous with babies, you has them winsome ways. Why, look at the little dear, she’s laughing even now to see you. She quite takes to you, Miss—the same as she does to Miss Polly.”
“She takes to Polly, does she?” said Flower.
“Take to her? I should say so, Miss; and as to Miss Polly, she just worships baby. Two or three times a day she comes into the nursery, and many and many a time she coaxes me to let her bathe her. The fact is, Miss Flower, we was all in a dreadful taking about Miss Polly when her mamma died. She was quite in a stunned sort of state, and it was baby here brought her round. Ever since then our little Miss Pearl has been first of all with Miss Polly.”
“Give her to me,” said Flower, in a queer, changed voice. “I’ve altered my mind—I’d like to hold her. See, is she not friendly? Yes, baby, kiss me, baby, with your pretty mouth. Does she not coo—isn’t she perfect? You are quite right, Nurse. I do like to hold her, very much indeed.”
“I said she’d take to you, Miss,” said Nurse, in a gratified voice.
“So she does, and I take to her. Nurse, I wonder if you’d do something for me?”
“Of course I will, my dear.”
“I am so awfully hungry. Would you go down’ to the kitchen and choose a nice little dinner for me?”
“I’ll ring the bell, Miss Dalrymple. Alice shall bring it to you on a tray here, if you’ve a mind to eat it in the nursery.”
“But I do want you to choose something; do go yourself, and find something dainty. Do, Nursie, please Nursie. I want to be spoiled a little bit; no one ever spoils me now that my mamma is dead.”
“Bless the child!” said good-natured and unsuspicious Nurse. “Of course I’ll go, if you put it that way, Missy. Well, take care of baby, Miss Flower. Don’t attempt to carry her; hold her steady with your arm firm round her back. I’ll bring you your dinner in ten minutes at latest, Miss.”