Polly Part 22

"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 pa.s.sionate; 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 pa.s.sionate! Why, she was white with pa.s.sion 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 gla.s.ses out, and don't break any gla.s.ses, for we're always fined if we break gla.s.ses 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 help admitting 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 pa.s.sions 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 this _al fresco_ sort 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 pinp.r.i.c.k 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 pa.s.sions. a.s.sociate 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-fas.h.i.+oned 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-fas.h.i.+oned 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 pa.s.sion 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 pa.s.sion, 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 distinguished from 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 pa.s.sion 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 gra.s.s 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.