CHAPTER IX.

CHAPTER IX.AN OLD SONG.

It took a great deal to frighten Polly Maybright; no discipline, no hard words, no punishments, had ever been able to induce the smallest sensation of fear in her breast. As to the moor, she had been brought up on it; she had drankin its air, and felt its kindly breath on her cheeks from her earliest days. The moors were to Polly like dear, valued, but somewhat stern, friends. To be alone, even at night, in one of the small ravines of Peg-Top Moor had little in itself to alarm the moorland child.

It took Polly some time to realize that she was absolutely unable to stir a step. Struggle as she might, she could not put that badly-injured foot to the ground. Even she, brave and plucky as she was, had not the nerve to undergo this agony. She could not move, therefore she could do nothing at present to recover little Pearl. This was really the thought which distressed her. As to sleeping with her head pressed against the friendly bracken, or staying on Peg-Top Moor all night, these were small considerations. But not to be able to stir a step to find the baby, to feel that Flower was carrying the baby farther and farther away, and that Polly’s chance of ever seeing her again was growing less and less, became at last a thought of such agony that the poor little girl could scarcely keep from screaming aloud.

“And it was all my fault!” she moaned. “I forgot what father said about climbing the highest mountain. When David came to me, and told me that Flower was subject to those awful passions, I forgot all about my mountain-climbing. I did not recognize that I had come to a dangerous bit, so that I wanted the ropes of prayer and the memory of mother to pull me over it. No, I did nothing but rejoice in the knowledge that I didn’t much like Flower, and that I was very, very glad to tease her. Now I am punished. Oh, oh, what shall I do? Oh, if baby is lost! If baby dies, I shall die too! Oh, I think I’m the most miserable girl in all the world! What shall I do? Why did mother go away? Why did Flower come here? Why did I want her to come? I made a mess of the housekeeping, and now I have made a mess of the visit of the strangers. Oh, I’m the sort of girl who oughtn’t to go a step alone!—I really, really am! I think I’m the very weakest sort of girl in all the world!”

Polly sobbed and sobbed. It was not her custom to give way thus utterly, but she was in severe pain of body, and she had got a great shock when the loss of little Pearl had been announced by David.

“What shall I do?” she moaned and sobbed. “Oh, I’m the sort of girl who oughtn’t to go a step alone.”

While she cried all by herself on the moor, and the friendly stars looked down at her, and the moon came out and shone on her poor forsaken little figure, an old verse she used to say in her early childhood returned to her memory. It was the verse of a hymn—a hymn her mother was fond of, and used often to sing, particularly about the time of the New Year, to the children.

Mrs. Maybright had a beautiful voice, and on Sunday evenings she sang many hymns, with wonderful pathos and feeling, to her children. Polly, who cared for music on herown account, had loved to listen. At these times she always looked hungrily into her mother’s face, and a longing and a desire for the best things of all awoke in her breast. It was at such times as these that she made resolves, and thought of climbing high and being better than others.

Since her mother’s death, Polly could not bear to listen to hymns. In church she had tried to shut her ears; her lips were closed tight, and she diligently read to herself some other part of the service. For her mother’s sake, the hymns, with that one beautiful voice silent, were torture to her; but Polly was a very proud girl, and no one, not even her father, who now came nearest to her in all the world, guessed what she suffered.

Now, lying on the moor, her mother’s favorite hymn seemed to float down from the stars to her ears:

“I know not the way I am going,But well do I know my Guide;With a trusting faith I give my handTo the loving Friend at my side.”“The only thing that I say to HimAs He takes it is, ‘Hold it fast!Suffer me not to lose my way,And bring me home at last!’”

It did not seem at all to Polly that she was repeating these words herself; rather they seemed to be said to her gently, slowly, distinctly, by a well-loved and familiar voice.

It was true, then, there was a Guide, and those who were afraid to go alone could hold a Hand which would never lead them astray.

Her bitter sobs came more quietly as she thought of this. Gradually her eyes closed, and she fell asleep.

When Flower started across the moor it was quite true that she was not in the least afraid. A great terror had come to her that night; during those awful minutes when she feared the baby was dead, the terror of the deed she had done had almost stunned her; but when Maggie came and relieved her of her worst agony, a good deal of her old manner and a considerable amount of her old haughty, defiant spirit had returned.

Flower was more or less uncivilized; there was a good deal of the wild and of the untamed about her; and now that the baby was alive, and likely to do well, overwhelming contrition for the deed she had done no longer oppressed her.

She stepped along as quickly as her uncomfortable boots would admit. The moonlight fell full on her slender figure, and cast a cold radiance over her uncovered head. Her long, yellow hair floated down over her shoulders; she looked wonderfully ethereal, almost unearthly, and had any of the villagers been abroad, they might well have taken her for one of the ghosts of the moor.

Flower had a natural instinct for finding her way, and, aided by Maggie’s directions, she steered in a straight course for the village. Not a soul was abroad; she was alone, in a great solitude.

The feeling gave her a certain sense of exhilaration. From the depths of her despair her easily influenced spirits sprang again to hope and confidence. After all, nothing very dreadful had happened. She must struggle not to give way to intemperate feelings. She must bear with Polly! she must put up with Maggie. It was all very trying, of course, but it was the English way. She walked along faster and faster, and now her lips rose in a light song, and now again she ran, eager to get over the ground. When she ran her light hair floated behind her, and she looked less and less like a living creature.

Polly had slept for nearly two hours. She awoke to hear a voice singing, not the sweet, touching, high notes which had seemed to fall from the stars to comfort her, but a wild song:

“Oh, who will up and follow me?Oh, who will with me ride?Oh, who will up and follow meTo win a bonny bride?”

For a moment Polly’s heart stood still; then she started forward with a glad and joyful cry.

“It is Flower! Flower coming back again with little Pearl!” she said, in a voice of rapture. “That is Flower’s song and Flower’s voice, and she wouldn’t sing so gayly if baby was not quite, quite well, and if she was not bringing her home.”

Polly rose, as well as she could, to a sitting posture, and shouted out in return:

“Here I am, Flower. Come to me. Bring me baby at once.”

Even Flower, who in many respects had nerves of iron, was startled by this sudden apparition among the bracken. For a brief instant she pressed her hand to her heart. Were Maggie’s tales true? Were there really queer and unnatural creatures to be found on the moor?

“Come here, Flower, here! I have sprained my ankle. What are you afraid of?” shouted Polly again. Then Flower sprang to her side, knelt down by her, and took her cold hand in hers. Flower’s slight fingers were warm; she was glowing all over with life and exercise.

“Where’s baby?” said Polly, a sickly fear stealing over her again when she saw that the queer girl was alone.

“Baby? She’s in the hermit’s hut with Maggie. Don’t scold me, Polly. I’m very sorry I got into a passion.”

Polly pushed Flower’s fingers a little away.

“I don’t want to be angry,” she said. “I’ve been asking God to keep me from being angry. I did wrong myself, I didvery wrong, only you did worse; you did worse than I did, Flower.”

“I don’t see that at all. At any rate, I have said I am sorry. No one is expected to beg pardon twice. How is it you are out here, lying on the moor, Polly? Are you mad?”

“No. I came out to look for baby, and for you.”

“But why are you here? You could not find us in that lazy fashion.”

“Look at my foot; the moonlight shines on it. See, it is twisted all round. I fell from a height and hurt myself. I have been lying here for hours.”

“Poor Polly! I am really sorry. I once strained my foot like that. The pain was very bad—very, very bad. Mother kept my foot on her knee all night; she bathed it all night long; in the morning it was better.”

“Please, Flower, don’t mind about my foot now. Tell me about baby. Is she ill? Have you injured her?”

“I don’t know. I suppose I did wrong to take her out like that. I said before, I was sorry. I was frightened about her, awfully frightened, until Maggie came in. I was really afraid baby was dead. I don’t want to speak of it. It wasn’t true. Don’t look at me like that. Maggie came, and said that little Pearl lived. I was so relieved that I kissed Maggie, yes, actually, although she is only a kitchen-maid. Maggie got a warm bath ready, and put baby in, and when I left the hut she was sound asleep. Maggie knew exactly what to do for her. Fancy my kissing her, although she is only a kitchen-maid!”

“She is the dearest girl in the world!” said Polly. “I think she is noble. Think of her going to the hermit’s hut, and finding baby, and saving baby’s life. Oh, she is the noblest girl in the world, miles and miles above you and me!”

“You can speak for yourself. I said she behaved very well. It is unnecessary to compare her to people in a different rank of life. Now, do you think you can lean on me, and so get back to Sleepy Hollow?”

“No, Flower. I cannot possibly stir. Look at my foot; it is twisted the wrong way.”

“Then I must leave you, for Maggie has sent me in a great hurry to get milk, and comforts of all sorts, for baby.”

“Please don’t stay an instant. Run, Flower. Why did you stay talking so long? If father is in the house, you can tell him, and he will come, I know, and carry me home. But, oh! get everything that is wanted for baby first of all. I am not of the smallest consequence compared to baby. Do run, Flower; do be quick. It frets me so awfully to see you lingering here when baby wants her comforts.”

“I shan’t be long,” said Flower. She gathered up her skirts, and sped down the path, and Polly gave a sigh of real relief.

CHAPTER X.LOOKING AT HERSELF.

That night, which was long remembered in the annals of the Maybright family as one of the dreariest and most terrible they had ever passed through, came to an end at last. With the early dawn Polly was brought home, and about the same time Nurse and Maggie reappeared with baby on the scene.

Flower, after she had briefly told her tidings, went straight up to her own room, where she locked the door, and remained deaf to all entreaties on David’s part that he might come in and console her.

“She’s always dreadful after she has had a real bad passion,” he explained to Fly, who was following him about like a little ghost. “I wish she would let me in. She spends herself so when she is in a passion that she is quite weak afterwards. She ought to have a cup of tea; I know she ought.”

But it was in vain that David knocked, and that little Fly herself, even though she felt that she hated Flower, brought the tea. There was no sound at the other side of the locked door, and after a time the anxious watchers went away.

At that moment, however, had anybody been outside, they might have seen pressed against the window-pane in that same room a pale but eager face. Had they looked, too, they might have wondered at the hard lines round the young, finely-cut lips, and yet the eager, pleading watching in the eyes.

There was a stir in the distance—the far-off sound of wheels. Flower started to her feet, slipped the bolt of her door, ran downstairs, and was off and away to meet the covered carriage which was bringing baby home.

She called to George, who was driving it, to stop. She got in, and seated herself beside Nurse and baby.

“How is she? Will she live?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“God grant it!” replied the Nurse. “What are you doing, Miss Flower? No, you shan’t touch her.”

“I must! Give her to me this moment. There is Dr. Maybright. Give me baby this moment. I must, Iwill, have her!”

She almost snatched the little creature out of Nurse’s astonished arms, and as the carriage drew up at the entrance steps sprang out, and put the baby into Dr. Maybright’s arms.

“There!” she said; “I took her away, but I give her back. I was in a passion and angry when I took her away; now I repent, and am sorry, and I give her back to you? Don’t you see, I can’t do more than give her back to you? That is our way out in Victoria. Don’t you slow English people understand? I was angry; now I am sorry. Why do you allstand round and stare at me like that? Can anybody be more than sorry, or do more than give back what they took?”

“It is sometimes impossible to give back what we took away, Flower,” replied the Doctor, very gravely.

He was standing in the midst of his children; his face was white; his eyes had a strained look in them; the strong hands with which he clasped little Pearl trembled. He did not look again at Flower, who shrank away as if she had received a blow, and crept upstairs.

For the rest of the day she was lost sight of; there was a great deal of commotion and excitement. Polly, when she was brought home, was sufficiently ill and suffering to require the presence of a doctor; little Pearl showed symptoms of cold, and for her, too, a physician prescribed.

Why not Dr. Maybright? The children were not accustomed to strange faces and unfamiliar voices when they were ill or in pain. Polly had a curious feeling when the new doctor came to see her; he prescribed and went away. Polly wondered if the world was coming to an end; she was in greater pain than she had ever endured in her life, and yet she felt quiet and peaceful. Had she gone up a step or two of the mountain she so longed to climb? Did she hear the words of her mother’s favorite song, and was a Guide—theGuide—holding her childish hand?

The hour of the long day passed somehow.

If there was calm in Polly’s room, and despair more or less in poor Flower’s, the rest of the house was kept in a state of constant excitement. The same doctor came back again; doors were shut and opened quickly; people whispered in the corridors. As the hours flew on, no one thought of Flower in her enforced captivity, and even Polly, but for Maggie’s ceaseless devotion, might have fared badly.

All day Flower Dalrymple remained in her room. She was forgotten at meal-times. Had David been at home, this would not have been the case; but Helen had sent David and her own little brothers to spend the day at Mrs. Jones’s farm. Even the wildest spirits can be tamed and brought to submission by the wonderful power of hunger, and so it came to pass that in the evening a disheveled-looking girl opened the door of her pretty room over the porch, and slipped along the passages and downstairs. Flower went straight to the dining-room; she intended to provide herself with bread and any other food she could find, then to return to her solitary musings. She thought herself extremely neglected, and the repentance and sense of shame which she had more or less experienced in the morning and the memory of Dr. Maybright’s words and the look in has grave eyes had faded under a feeling of being unloved, forsaken, forgotten. Even David had never come near her—David, who lived for her. Was she not his queen as well as sister? Was he not her dutiful subject as well as her little brother?

All the long day that Flower had spent in solitude herthoughts grew more and more bitter, and only hunger made her now forsake her room. She went into the dining-room; it was a long, low room, almost entirely lined with oak. There was a white cloth on the long center table, in the middle of which a lamp burnt dimly; the French windows were open; the blinds were not drawn down. As Flower opened the door, a strong cold breeze caused the lamp to flare up and smoke, the curtains to shake, and a child to move in a restless, fretful fashion on her chair. The child was Firefly; her eyes were so swollen with crying that they were almost invisible under their heavy red lids; her hair was tossed; the rest of her little thin face was ghastly pale.

“Is that you, Flower?” she exclaimed. “Are you going to stay here? If you are, I’ll go away.”

“What do you mean?” said Flower. “Yougo away? You can go or stay, just as you please. I have come here because I want some food, and because I’ve been shamefully neglected and starved all day. Ring the bell, please, Fly. I really must order up something to eat.”

Fly rose from her chair. She had long, lanky legs and very short petticoats, and as she stood half leaning against the wall, she looked so forlorn, pathetic, and yet comical, that Flower, notwithstanding her own anger and distress, could not help bursting out laughing.

“What is the matter?” she said. “What an extraordinary little being you are! You look at me as if you were quite afraid of me. For pity’s sake, child, don’t stare at me in that grewsome fashion. Ring the bell, as I tell you, and then if you please you can leave the room.”

There was a very deep leather arm-chair near the fireplace. Into this now Flower sank. She leant her head comfortably against its cushions, and gazed at Firefly with a slightly sarcastic expression.

“Then you don’t know!” said Fly, suddenly. “You sit there and look at me, and you talk of eating, as if any one could eat. You don’t know. You wouldn’t sit there like that if you really knew.”

“I think you are the stupidest little creature I ever met!” responded Flower. “I’m to know something, and it’s wonderful that I care to eat. I tell you, child, I haven’t touched food all day, and I’m starving. What’s the matter? Speak! I’ll slap you if you don’t.”

“There’s bread on the sideboard,” said Fly. “I’m sorry you’re starving. It’s only that father is ill; that—that he’s very ill. I don’t suppose it is anything to you, or you wouldn’t have done it.”

“Give me that bread,” said Flower. She turned very white, snatched a piece out of Fly’s hand, and put it to her lips. She did not swallow it, however. A lump seemed to rise in her throat.

“I’m faint for want of food,” she said in a minute. “I’d like some wine. If David was here, he’d give it to me.What’s that about your father? Ill? He was quite well this morning; he spoke to me.”

She shivered.

“I’m awfully faint,” she said in a moment. “Please, Fly, be merciful. Give me half a glass of sherry.”

Fly started, rushed to the sideboard, poured a little wine into a glass, and brought it to Flower.

“There!” she said in a cold though broken-hearted voice. “But you needn’t faint; he’s not your father; you wouldn’t have done it if he was your father.”

Flower tossed off the wine.

“I’m better now,” she said.

Then she rose from the deep arm-chair, stood up, and put her two hands on Fly’s shoulder.

“What have I done? What do you accuse me of?”

“Don’t! You hurt me, Flower; your hands are so hard.”

“I’ll take them off. What have I done?”

“We are awfully sorry you came here. We all are; we all are.”

“Yes? you can be sorry or glad, just as you please! What have I done?”

“You have made father, our own father—you have made him ill. The doctor thinks perhaps he’ll die, and in any case he will be blind.”

“What horrid things you say, child!Ihaven’t done this.”

“Yes. Father was out all last night. You took baby away, and he went to look for her, and he wasn’t well before, and he got a chill. It was a bad chill, and he has been ill all day. You did it, but he wasn’t your father. We are all so dreadfully sorry that you came here.”

Flower’s hands dropped to her sides. Her eyes curiously dilated, looked past Fly, gazing so intently at something which her imagination conjured up that the child glanced in a frightened way over her shoulder.

“What’s the matter, Flower? What are you looking at?”

“Myself.”

“But you can’t see yourself.”

“I can. Never mind. Is this true what you have been telling me?”

“Yes, it’s quite true. I wish it was a dream, and I might wake up out of it.”

“And you all put this thing at my door?”

“Yes, of course. Dr. Strong said—Dr. Strong has been here twice this evening—he said it was because of last night.”

“Sometimes we can never give back what we take away.” These few words came back to Flower now.

“And you all hate me?” she said, after a pause.

“We don’t love you, Flower; how could we?”

“You hate me?”

“I don’t know. Father wouldn’t like us to hate anybody.”

“Where’s Helen?”

“She’s in father’s room.”

“And Polly?”

“Polly is in bed. She’s ill, too, but not in danger, like father. The doctor says that Polly is not to know about father for at any rate a day, so please be careful not to mention this to her, Flower.”

“No fear!”

“Polly is suffering a good deal, but she’s not unhappy, for she doesn’t know about father.”

“Is baby very ill, too?”

“No. Nurse says that baby has escaped quite wonderfully. She was laughing when I saw her last. She has only a little cold.”

“I am glad that I gave her to your father myself,” said Flower, in a queer, still voice. “I’m glad of that. Is David anywhere about?”

“No. He’s at the farm. He’s to sleep there to-night with Bob and Bunny, for there mustn’t be a stir of noise in the house.”

“Well, well, I’d have liked to say good-by to David. You’re quite sure, Fly, that you all think it wasImade your father ill?”

“Why, of course. You know it was.”

“Yes, I know. Good-by, Fly.”

“Good-night, you mean. Don’t you want something to eat?”

“No. I’m not hungry now. It isn’t good-night; it’s good-by.”

Flower walked slowly down the long, low, dark room, opened the door, shut it after her, and disappeared.

Fly stood for a moment in an indifferent attitude at the table. She was relieved that Flower had at last left her, and took no notice of her words.

Flower went back to her room. Again she shut and locked her door. The queer mood which had been on her all day, half repentance, half petulance, had completely changed. It takes a great deal to make some people repent, but Flower Dalrymple was now indeed and in truth facing the consequences of her own actions. The words she had said to Fly were quite true. She had looked at herself. Sometimes that sight is very terrible. Her fingers trembled, her whole body shook, but she did not take a moment to make up her mind. They all hated her, but not more than she hated herself. They were quite right to hate her, quite right to feel horror at her presence. Her mother had often spoken to her of the consequences of unbridled passion, but no words that her mother could ever have used came up to the grim reality. Of course, she must go away, and at once. She sat down on the side of her bed, pressed her hand to her forehead, and reflected. In the starved state she was in, the little drop of wine she had taken had brought on a violent headache. For a time she found it difficult to collect her thoughts.

CHAPTER XI.THE WORTH OF A DIAMOND.

Flower quite made up her mind to go away again. Her mood, however, had completely changed. She was no longer in a passion; on the contrary, she felt stricken and wounded. She would go away now to hide herself, because her face, her form, the sound of her step, the echo of her voice, must be painful to those whom she had injured. She shuddered as she recalled Firefly’s sad words:

“Father says it is wrong to hate any one, but, of course, we cannot love you.”

She felt that she could never look Polly in the face again, that Helen’s gentle smile would be torture to her. Oh, of course she must go away; she must go to-night.

She was very tired, for she had really scarcely rested since her fit of mad passion, and the previous night she had never gone to bed. Still all this mattered nothing. There was a beating in her heart, there was a burning sting of remorse awakened within her, which made even the thought of rest impossible.

Flower was a very wild and untaught creature; her ideas of right and wrong were of the crudest. It seemed to her now that the only right thing was to run away.

When the house was quiet, she once more opened her little cabinet, and took from thence the last great treasure which it contained. It was one solitary splendid unset diamond. She had not the least idea of its value, but she knew that it would probably fetch a pound or two. She had not the least notion of the value of money or of the preciousness of the gem which she held in her hand, but she thought it likely that it would supply her immediate needs.

The house was quite still now. She took off her green cloth dress, put on a very plain one of black cashmere, slipped a little velvet cap on her head, wrapped a long white shawl round her, and thus equipped opened her door, and went downstairs.

She was startled at the foot of the stairs to encounter Maggie. Maggie was coming slowly upwards as Flower descended, and the two girls paused to look at one another. The lamps in the passages were turned low, and Maggie held a candle above her head; its light fell full on Flower.

“You mustn’t go to Miss Polly on no account, Miss Flower,” said Maggie, adopting the somewhat peremptory manner she had already used to Flower in the hermit’s hut. “Miss Polly is not to be frightened or put out in any way, leastways not to-night.”

“You mean that you think I would tell her about Dr. Maybright?”

“Perhaps you would, Miss; you’re none too sensible.”

Flower was too crushed even to reply to this uncomplimentary speech. After a pause, she said:

“I’m not going to Polly. I’m going away. Maggie, is it true that the—that Dr. Maybright is very ill?”

“Yes, Miss, the Doctor’s despert bad.”

Maggie’s face worked; her candle shook; she put up her other hand to wipe away the fast-flowing tears.

“Oh, don’t cry!” said Flower, stamping her foot impatiently. “Tears do no good, and it wasn’t you who did it.”

“No, Miss, no, Miss; that’s a bit of a comfort. I wouldn’t be you, Miss Flower, for all the wide world. Well, I must go now; I’m a-sleeping in Miss Polly’s room to-night, Miss.”

“Why, is Polly ill, too?”

“Only her foot’s bad. I mustn’t stay, really, Miss Flower.”

“Look here,” said Flower, struck by a sudden thought, “before you go tell me something. Your mother lives in the village, does she not?”

“Why, yes, Miss, just in the main street, down round by the corner. There’s the baker’s shop and the butcher’s, and you turn round a sharp corner, and mother’s cottage is by your side.”

“I’ve a fancy to go and see her. Good-night.”

“But not at this hour, surely, Miss?”

“Why not? I was out later last night.”

“That’s true. Well, I must go to Miss Polly now. Don’t you make any noise when you’re coming in, Miss! Oh, my word!” continued Maggie to herself, “what can Miss Flower want with mother? Well, she is a contrairy young lady mischievous, and all that, and hasn’t she wrought a sight of harm in this yer house! But, for all that, mother’ll be mighty took up with her, for she’s all for romance, mother is, and Miss Flower’s very uncommon. Well, it ain’t nought to do with me, and I’ll take care to tell no tales to Miss Polly, poor dear.”

The night was still and calm; the stars shone peacefully; the wind, which had come in gusts earlier in the evening, had died down. It took Flower a very few minutes to reach the village, and she wasn’t long in discovering Mrs. Ricketts’ humble abode.

That good woman had long retired to rest, but Flower’s peremptory summons on the door soon caused a night-capped head to protrude out of a window, a burst of astonishment to issue from a wonder-struck pair of lips, and a moment later the young lady was standing by Mrs. Ricketts’ fireside.

“I’m proud to see you, Miss, and that I will say. Set down, Miss, do now, and I’ll light up the fire in a twinkling.”

“No, you needn’t,” said Flower. “I’m hot; I’m burning. Feel me; a fire would drive me wild.”

“To be sure, so you are, all in a fever like,” said Mrs. Ricketts, laying her rough hand for a moment on Flower’s dainty arm. “You’ll let me light up the bit of a paraffinlamp, then, Miss, for it ain’t often as I have the chance of seeing a young lady come all the way from Australy.”

“You can light the lamp, if you like,” said Flower. “And you can stare at me as much as you please. I’m just like any one else, only wickeder. I’ve come to you, Mrs. Ricketts, because you’re Maggie’s mother, and Maggie’s a good girl, and I thought perhaps you would help me.”

“I’m obligated for the words of praise about my daughter, Miss. Yes, she don’t mean bad, Maggie don’t. What can I do to help you, Miss? Anything in my power you are kindly welcome to.”

“Have you ever seen a diamond, Mrs. Ricketts?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure, Miss.”

“Diamonds are very valuable stones, you know.”

“Maybe, Miss. They ain’t in my way. I wish you’d let me light you a bit of fire, Miss Flower. You’ll have the chills presently, Miss, for you’re all of a burning fever now.”

“You can do anything you like in the way of fire by-and-by. I have a diamond here. Shall I show it to you?”

“Oh, law, Miss, I’m sure you are condescending.”

“Come over close to the paraffin lamp. Now you shall see. Doesn’t it sparkle!”

Mrs. Ricketts dropped a curtsey to the gem, which, unpolished as it was, cast forth strange reflections, giving her, as she afterwards explained, a “queer feel” and a sense of chill down the marrow of her back.

“This is very valuable,” said Flower. “I don’t know what it is worth, but my father gave it to my mother, and she gave it to me. She said it would be well for me to have it in case of emergency. Emergency has come, and I want to sell this stone. It is very likely that whoever buys it from me will become rich. Would you like it? You shall have it for what money you have in the house.”

“Oh, law, Miss! but I’m a very poor woman, Miss.”

Mrs. Ricketts curtseyed again, and drew closer. “For all the world, it looks as if it were alive, Miss.”

“All valuable diamonds look as if they lived. If this were cut and polished it would dazzle you.”

“And if I had it, I could sell it for a good bit of money?”

“I am sure you could. I don’t know for how much, but for more than I am likely to get from you.”

“I’d like to pay Miss Polly back that pound as Maggie took from her.”

“Don’t worry me about your debts. Will you have this beautiful uncut diamond for the money you have in the house?”

Mrs. Ricketts did not reply for a moment.

“I have nine shillings and fourpence-halfpenny,” she said at last, “and to-morrow is rent day. Rent will be eight shillings; that leaves me one-and-fourpence-half penny for food. Ef I give you all my money, Miss, how am I to pay rent? And how are the children to have food to-morrow?”

“But you can sell the diamond. Why are you so dreadfully stupid? You can sell the diamond for one, two, or perhaps three pounds. Then how rich you will be.”

“Oh, Miss! there’s no one in this yer village ’ud give away good money for a bit of a stone like that; they’d know better. My word! it do send out a sort of a flame, though; it’s wondrous to look upon!”

“People will buy it from you in a town. Go to the nearest town, take it to a jeweler, and see how rich you will be when you come out of his shop. There, I will give it to you for your nine-and-fourpence-half penny.”

Flower laid the diamond in the woman’s hand.

“It seems to burn me like,” she said. But all the same her fingers closed over it, and a look of greed and satisfaction filled her face.

“I don’t know if I’m a-doin’clock right,” she said, “for perhaps this ain’t worth sixpence, and then where’s the rent and the food? But, all the same, I don’t like to say no to a pretty lady when she’s in trouble. Here’s the nine-and-fourpence-halfpenny, Miss. I earned it bit by bit by washing the neighbors’ clothes; it wasn’t easy come by; there’s labor in it, and aches and dead-tiredness about it. You take it, Miss. I only trust the diamond will repay what I loses on that nine-and-fourpence-half penny.”

Flower handled the money as if she thought it dirty.

Without a word she slipped it into the pocket of her dress.

“I am going away,” she said. “They are angry with me at Sleepy Hollow. I have done wrong. I am not a bit surprised. I’m going away, so as not to cause them any more trouble.”

“Oh, law, now, Miss! but they’ll fret to part with you.”

“No they won’t. Anyhow, it isn’t your affair. I’m going away as soon as I possibly can. Can you tell me where the nearest railway station is?”

“There’s none closer than Everton, and that’s a matter of five mile from here.”

“I must get there as quickly as possible. What road shall I take?”

“Do you think, Miss, I’d let a pretty young lady like you trape the lanes in the dead of night? No, no; carrier goes between two and three in the morning. You might go with him, if you must go.”

“That is a good thought. Where does the carrier live?”

“Three doors from here. I’ll run round presently and tell him to call.”

“Thank you. Do you think nine-and-fourpence-halfpenny will take me to Bath?”

“To Bath, Miss? It might, if you condescended to third class.”

“Third class will do very well. Did you ever hear Polly Maybright speak of an aunt of hers, a Mrs. Cameron?”

Mrs. Ricketts, whose back was half turned to Flower while she shut and locked the box out of which she had taken the precious nine-and-fourpence-halfpenny, now sprang to her feet, and began to speak in a tone of great excitement.

“Did I hear of her?” she exclaimed. “Did I hear of the woman—for lady she ain’t—what turned my Maggie out of her good place, and near broke Miss Polly’s heart? Don’t mention Mrs. Cameron, please, Miss Flower, for talk of her I won’t; set eyes on her I wouldn’t, no, not if I was to receive a pound for it!”

“You needn’t get so excited,” said Flower; “you have not got to see Polly’s aunt; only I thought perhaps you could give me her address, for I am going to her to-morrow.”

“I wouldn’t, Miss, if I was you.”

“Yes, you would if you were me. What is Mrs. Cameron’s address?”

“I don’t know as I can rightly tell you, Miss.”

“Yes, you must. I see you know it quite well.”

“Well then, well then—you won’t like her a bit, Miss Flower.”

“What’s her address?”

“Jasper Street; I think it’s Jasper Street.”

“And the number? She doesn’t live in the whole of Jasper Street.”

“Now, was it a one and a six or a one and a seven?” queried Mrs. Ricketts. “Oh, Miss! if I was you, I wouldn’t go near her; but I think her number is a one and a seven.”

“Seventeen, you mean.”

“Yes, that’s it; I was never great at counting.”

CHAPTER XII.RELICS AND A WELCOME.

Mrs. Cameron’s house in Bath was decidedly old-fashioned. It was a large, solemn, handsome mansion; its windows shone from constant cleaning; its paint was always fresh, its Venetian blinds in perfect order.

When a certain wild, untidy, almost disreputable-looking girl ran up its snow-white steps, and rang its highly polished brass bell, the neat parlor maid who answered her summons stared at her, and doubted a good deal if Mrs. Cameron could see her.

“You had better step into the hall for a moment,” said the maidservant, “and I’ll inquire if my missis is at leisure; but if it’s the new housemaid’s place you’ve come after——”

Flower gasped; she drew herself up, raised her hand, and took off her small black velvet cap.

“You forget yourself!” she said, with a haughtiness which did not ill become her, notwithstanding her untidy and dishevelled state. “My name is Flower Dalrymple, and I have come from Sleepy Hollow. Please let your mistress know directly.”

The parlor maid, who saw her mistake, was profuse in apologies.

She showed Flower into a dismal-looking dining room, and went upstairs.

“Who is it, Ann?” asked an anxious voice as she prepared to ascend the richly-carpeted stairs.

A door was opened at the end of the passage, and a fusty, dusty-looking little man put in an appearance.

“Who is it, Ann? Any one for me?”

“A young lady as wants to see the missis, sir. Oh, Mr. Cameron! what a deal of dust you has brought out into the ’all!”

The little man looked meekly down at his dusty garments.

“I have just been unpacking my last crate of curiosities from China, Ann. Where is the young lady? Perhaps she would like to see the relics.”

“No, sir, that I’m sure she wouldn’t; she’s all blown and spent like. She’s for all the world like a relic herself.”

Ann tripped lightly upstairs, and Mr. Cameron, pushing his spectacles high up on his bald forehead, looked with an anxious glance to right and left. Then very quickly on tiptoe he crossed the hall, opened the dining-room door, and went in.

“How are you, young lady? If you are very quick, I can get you into my sanctum sanctorum. I am just unpacking Chinese relics. I trust, I hope, you are fond of relics.”

Flower started to her feet.

“I thought, I certainly thought, Polly saidMrs.Cameron,” she remarked. “I don’t think I shall be at all afraid to live with you. I don’t exactly know what Chinese relics are, but I should love to see them.”

“Then quick, my dear, quick! We haven’t a minute to spare. She’s sure to be down in a jiffy. Now then, step on tiptoe across the hall. Ann has the quickest ears, and she invariably reports. She’s not a nice girl, Ann isn’t. She hasn’t the smallest taste for relics. My dear, there’s an education in this room, but no one, no one who comes to the house, cares to receive it.”

While the little man was talking, he was rushing across the wide hall, and down a long passage, Flower’s hand clasped in his. Finally he pushed open a baize-lined door, hastily admitted himself and Flower, and closed it behind them. The sanctum sanctorum was small, stuffy, dusty, dirty. There were several chairs, but they were all piled with relics, two or three tables were also crammed with tokens of the past. Flower was very weary, the dust and dirt made her sneeze, and she looked longingly for even the smallest corner of a chair on which to seat herself.

“I do want some breakfast so badly,” she began.

“Breakfast! My love, you shall have it presently. Now then, we’ll begin. This case that I have just unpacked contains teeth and a small portion of a jawbone. Ah! hark!what is that? She is coming already! Will that woman never leave me in peace? My love, the object of my life, the one object of my whole life, has been to benefit and educate the young. I thought at last I had found a pupil, but, ah, I fear she is very angry!”

The sound of a sharp voice was heard echoing down the stairs and along the passage, a sharp, high-pitched voice, accompanied by the sharper, shriller barking of a small dog.

“Zeb! I say, Zeb! Zebedee, if you have taken that young girl into your sanctum, I desire you to send her out this moment.”

The little man’s face grew pale; he pushed his spectacles still higher on his forehead.

“There, my love, do you hear her? I did my best for you. I was beginning your education.”

“Zeb! Zeb! Open the door this minute,” was shouted outside.

“You’ll remember, my love, to your dying day, that I showed you three teeth and the bit of jawbone of a Chinaman who died a thousand years ago.”

“Zeb!” thundered the voice.

“Yap! yap! yap!” barked the small dog.

“You must go, my dear. She’s a powerful woman. She always has her way. There, let me push you out. I wouldn’t have her catch sight of me at this moment for fifty pounds.”

The green baize door was opened a tiny bit, a violent shove was administered to Flower’s back, and she found herself in the arms of Mrs. Cameron, and in extreme danger of having her nose bitten off by the infuriated Scorpion.

“Just like Zebedee!” exclaimed the good lady. “Always struggling to impart the dry bones of obsolete learning to the young! Come this way, Miss—Miss—what’s your name?”

“Dalrymple—Flower Dalrymple.”

“An outlandish title, worthy of Sleepy Hollow. I have not an idea who you are, but come into the dining-room.”

“Might I—— might I have a little breakfast?”

“Bless me, the child looks as if she were going to faint! Ann, Ann, I say! Down, Scorpion! You shall have no cream if you bark any more. Ann, bring half a glass of port wine over here, and make some breakfast for Miss—Miss Rymple as fast as you can.”

“Dalrymple, please!”

“Don’t worry me, child. I can’t get my tongue round long names. Now, what is it you are called? Daisy? What in the world have you come to me for, Daisy?”

“I’m Flower——”

“Well, and isn’t Daisy a flower? Now then, Daisy Rymple, tell your story as quickly as possible. I don’t mind giving you breakfast, but I’m as busy as possible to-day. I’ve six committee meetings on between now and two o’clock. Say your say, Daisy, and then you can go.”

“But I’ve come to stay.”

“Tostay? Good gracious! Scorpion, down, sir! Now, young lady, have you or have you not taken leave of your senses?”

“No, really. May I tell you my story?”

“If you take ten minutes over it; I won’t give you longer time.”

“I’ll try to get it into ten minutes. I’m an Australian, and so is David. David is my brother. We came over in theAustralasiaabout six weeks ago. Dr. Maybright met us in London, and took us down to Sleepy Hollow.”

“Bless the man!—just like him. Had he any responsible matron or spinster in the house, child?”

“I don’t know; I don’t think so. There was Helen and Polly and——”

“I don’t want to hear about Polly! Go on; your ten minutes will soon be up. Go on.”

“A couple of days ago we went on a picnic—I have a way of getting into awful passions—and Polly—Polly vexed me.”

“Oh, she vexed you? You’re not the first that young miss has vexed, I can tell you.”

“She vexed me; I oughtn’t to have minded; I got into a passion; I felt awful; I ran away with baby.”

“Goodness me! what is the world coming to? You don’t mean to say you have dared to bring the infant here, Daisy?”

“No, no. I ran away with her on to the moors. I was so frightened, for I thought baby had died. Then Maggie came, and she saved her life, and she was brought home again.”

“That’s a good thing; but I can’t see why you are troubling me with this story.”

“Yesterday morning I gave baby back to Dr. Maybright. He’s not like other people; he looked at me, and his look pierced my heart. He said something, too, and then for the first time I began to be really, really sorry. I went up to my room; I stayed there alone all day; I was miserable.”

“Served you right if you were, Daisy.”

“In the evening I was so hungry, I went down for food. I met Firefly; she told me the worst.”

“Then the baby died? You really are an awful girl, Daisy Rymple.”

“No. The baby is pretty well, and Polly, who sprained her foot running after me, is pretty well; but it’s—it’s Dr. Maybright—the best man I ever met—a man who could have helped me and made me a—a good girl—he’s very, very ill, and they think he may die. He wasn’t strong, and he was out all night looking for baby and me, and he got a bad chill, and he—he may be dead now. It was my doing; Fly told me so.”

Flower laid her head on the table; her long sustained fortitude gave way; she sobbed violently.

Her tears stained Mrs. Cameron’s snowy table-linen; her head was pressed down on her hands; her face was hidden. She was impervious in her woe to any angry words or to the furious barking of a small dog.

At last a succession of violent shakes recalled her to herself.

“Willyou sit up?—spoiling my damask and shedding tears into the excellent coffee I have made for you. Ah, that’s better; now I can see your face. Don’t you know that you are a very naughty, dangerous sort of girl?”

“Yes, I know that quite well. Mother always said that if I didn’t check my passion I’d do great mischief some day.”

“And right she was. I don’t suppose the table-linen will ever get over those coffee stains mixed with tears. Now, have the goodness to tell me, Daisy, or Ivy, or whatever you are called, why you have come to tell this miserable, disgraceful story to me.”

“Fly said they none of them could love me now.”

“I should think not, indeed! No one will love such a naughty girl. What have you come to me for?”

“I thought I could stay with you for a little, until there was another home found for me.”

“Oh, ah! Now at last we have come to the bottom of the mystery. And I suppose you thought I’d pet you and make much of you?”

“I didn’t. I thought you’d scold me and be very cross. I came to you as a punishment, for Polly always said you were the crossest woman she ever met.”

“Polly said that? Humph! Now eat up your breakfast quickly, Daisy. I’m going out. Don’t stir from this room until I come back.”

Mrs. Cameron, who had come down-stairs in her bonnet, slammed the dining-room door after her, walked across the hall, and let herself out. It did not take her many minutes to reach the telegraph office. From, there she sent a brief message to Helen Maybright:

“Sorry your father is ill. Expect me this evening with Daisy Rymple.”

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