CHAPTER XVII
A Warning
MEANWHILE, after walking along for a short distance, Molly thought it would be wise to look up the names of Mrs Rose’s friends, as the daylight was beginning to fade and already the moon was mounting the sky; she had scribbled the names and addresses down on a slip of paper. She noted, with a slight thrill of pleasure, the jingle of the silver bracelet as she took the paper out of her pocket. Poor Molly, she could not feel very happy about the bracelet, of course, as the weight of Jack’s misfortune still crushed her down; but she was certainly pleased to possess such a bracelet. Having discovered that one of Mrs Rose’s friends lived about a quarter of a mile farther on, she determined to search the road until she came to this house, and then ask if Mrs Jennet, for that was the friend’s name, would kindly put her up for the night.
The road now began to grow wilder and more rugged, while here and there, beside the way, were huge rocks and piles of stones. She passed an occasional tree, but these had few leaves on their branches, and were much twisted and bent as though lashed by many storms.
Molly continued to search, but, instead of hurrying along as she had meant to, she found herself moving slower, and gradually slower still, and became aware that she was suddenly very tired. She dragged on for a short distance.
“I can’t do any more searching to-night,” she thought to herself. “I’m too tired. I’ll just make straight for the house—only I wish it wasn’t such a long way off. I’ll never get there.”
Molly found great difficulty in keeping her eyes open now; and if she hadn’t been so thoroughly exhausted and tired she might have been suspicious of this overwhelming wave of sleep that had seized her. She was too tired to think or reason, too tired to be suspicious. She only knew that her feet felt as if they were made of lead, and the only thing she wanted to do was to lie down and go to sleep at once.
“Can’t reach the house,” she murmured, drowsily. “Must go to sleep.”
She stumbled across the road, and threw herself down on the grass by the wayside. Oh, how delicious it was, just to lie down and go to sleep! But as her head was sinking back a last wave of consciousness flashed through Molly’s mind of the foolishness of the thing that she was doing … going to sleep by the roadside … and if the Pumpkin came along … she would never be able to save Jack now. At this thought—she rallied for a moment and pulled herself up into a kneeling position. She remained thus for a moment or two, with her head drooping forward. Then she struggled to fight off the wave of sleep that was coming over her again, and managed to crawl a few paces further on.
Although Molly did not know it at the time, this was one of the most critical moments in her adventure. If she had given in and gone comfortably to sleep by the roadside, this story would have had a very different ending. But Molly did not give in, her desire to find the Black Leaf and save her brother was so strong, that in spite of the great odds against her she was able to make one last effort to reach a place of safety. Though there was still no sign of Mrs Jennet’s house, there was fortunately a tree close by. And it was toward this tree that Molly slowly groped her way. She never knew how long it took her to reach that tree, although it was standing only a few feet away from her. But with repeated efforts she at length reached it, and with a great struggle pulled herself up into a standing position, leaning against the trunk. For some time she stood leaning against the tree; she could not remember afterward whether she went to sleep for a while or not—she thought she must have gone to sleep (“Like a horse, standing up,” she told herself). But she had barely lost consciousness when again her desire urged her to make another effort.
This was the last effort, and the hardest of all. Molly scarcely knew how she managed it, but manage she did, to pull herself up into the tree, and curl up among the lower branches. Then, immediately, she was asleep.
All through the moonlit night she slept and did not move. And if anyone passed on the road beneath the tree that night—Molly never knew. And nobody guessed there was a little girl lying asleep in the gnarled old tree by the side of the road that led to Lake Desolate. For little girls who are as tired as Molly must have been have not usually the strength, nor the will, to climb trees.
At daybreak Molly stirred and threw out her right arm, so that it hung down a little, over the edge of one of the branches: and the bracelet, the jingly, silver bracelet, slipped down over her wrist, and as she moved again, it slid over her hand and fell on to the ground at the foot of the tree.
After this Molly seemed more restless, and did not sleep so soundly, though many hours went by, and it was nearly noon before she was aroused at length by some one exclaiming loudly and persistently from beneath the tree, and something cold and hard grabbing at her arms and legs.
Molly sat up, rubbing her eyes, and then became aware that a chubby, startled-looking little woman in a black and white check dress and a black bonnet was calling up to her while she made frantic efforts to catch hold of Molly with the crooked handle of her umbrella.
“Oh, thank goodness, you ’ave woke up, which I thought you never was going to!” cried the plump little woman, dabbing her face with her handkerchief. “Such a fright as you give me, lying quite still there and me a-hollering at you for a hour or more, though I’d never a-seen you if it hadn’t been for your ’and and arm ’anging down out of the tree....”
“Who are you?” asked Molly drowsily. “I’m glad you did wake me up.”
“Maria Jennet is my name,” was the answer. “I done my best to wake you up, but my! you do want a bit of waking. Made me quite ’ot, you ’ave.”
“Oh, are you Mrs Jennet?” said Molly. “Mrs Rose’s friend?”
“I am,” said Mrs Jennet emphatically.
“Why, I was on my way to your house last night, when—when … Oh!” Molly gave a scream.
“Oh!” screamed Mrs Jennet. “What is it now? You do give a body the jumps, you do!”
But Molly did not answer. She was gazing with horrified eyes at her right arm. On the wrist was a long grey stain!
How had it come there? What did it mean? Molly rubbed her arm vigorously with her pocket-handkerchief—but she could not remove the stain. She had seen a grey stain like this before; but where?… And then she remembered. It was on Old Nancy’s finger, the evening she slept through the sunset hour. Molly then realized what had happened.
“Of course, he was another of them. What a stupid girl I was to trust him,” she exclaimed. “But where has my bracelet gone! Wait a minute please,” she continued, in reply to Mrs Jennet’s excited questioning. “I’ll tell you all about it in a minute.” She climbed down from the tree and searched about in the grass beneath. “Ah, here it is!” she cried, and snatched up her bracelet, only to drop it again instantly, as if it were red-hot coals. For on the inner side of the bracelet she saw the remains of a dull grey powder still clinging to it. “So that’s how he did it!” Molly nodded to herself. “That explains things.”
She understood now that the watchmaker was another spy employed by the Pumpkin, and the bracelet which she had accepted from him had contained this magic powder which had rubbed off on to her arm, and sent her to sleep. The old watchmaker was evidently relying on the powder acting quickly, and Molly, overwhelmed by sleep, being compelled to rest by the side of the road—or somewhere where the Pumpkin could easily catch her. Luckily for Molly, she had had enough will power to fight her way to a place of safety; and luckily, also, the bracelet had slipped off and so gradually she had regained consciousness again. Molly had had a very narrow escape, and she felt decidedly bewildered as to the best way of winning through the difficulties around her. Of one thing she felt certain, she must be very distrustful of everything and everybody—except, of course, where people were recommended to her by some one she could trust. So far, all the links in her chain of friends had proved good and true; Glan—Old Nancy—Aunt Janet—The Goblin—Miss Marigold—Mr Papingay—Mrs Rose—and now, Mrs Jennet. She could trust Mrs Jennet, surely.
Mrs Jennet was bubbling over with curiosity about the stain and the bracelet, and Molly answering some of her numerous questions, asked her to lend her the umbrella for a minute. Mrs Jennet watched breathlessly while Molly dug a little hole with the point, then picked up the bracelet on the tip of the umbrella and dropped it in the hole and piled earth and stones on it.
“It might only bring trouble to some one else if I leave it here,” she said.
Then she accepted Mrs Jennet’s kind and vigorous invitation to go home with her and ‘have a bite of something’ before proceeding on her way. As they walked along Molly told her companion a little of what had already taken place, and what had happened to Jack. At which Mrs Jennet protested loudly and even wept a little; then stood still in the middle of the roadway while she told Molly all the horrible things she would like to do to the Pumpkin if she caught him.
Mrs Jennet’s house was only a short distance away, and stood with several other houses by the side of the main road—the last dwellings these before you reached Lake Desolate, which was about two miles further on, she told Molly. Molly learned that the men from these houses worked in the mines near by. Mrs Jennet’s husband worked there and would not be home till evening.
While Mrs Jennet was bustling about, laying the table, and frying eggs and bacon, Molly got out her map and looked to see where the mines were. They were not marked on her map at all, and Mrs Jennet explained, when Molly showed her the map, that the mines were just over the border of Molly’s square; at which Molly was rather relieved, as it had struck her that she might have to go down the mines perhaps to search for the Black Leaf. But on second thoughts she remembered—of course, the Black Leaf could only grow above ground. This incident, however, called Molly’s attention to the fact that she was nearing another border-line of her square. It stretched away to the left of the road she was soon to go along; so she would not have much country to search on that side. But there was still a large piece of country around Lake Desolate.
“Are there no more houses beyond this group?” Molly asked Mrs Jennet, as they sat down to their meal.
“No. Yes,” said Mrs Jennet. “That is, not until you’ve passed Lake Desolate. Then there are one or two sheep-farms and cottages on the ’ills. Very lonely they must be, too. There’s very few go to Lake Desolate now—the road’s so bad—and so lonely. And what’s the good of going there, there’s nothing to see but the Lake and the ’ills.... ’Ave some more bread, duckie.... And there’s all them wild birds screeching over the Lake. Ugh! Fair gives me the creeps, it does. But there—I forgot you was going there. Fancy, a bit of a girl like you! Well, well! P’r’aps you ain’t afraid of being alone though? Eh?”
Molly said she didn’t think she was.
“I’m fond of my own company when I’m with other people,” remarked Mrs Jennet. “You know what I mean—I feel a little bit lost by myself.”
Everything in Mrs Jennet’s room seemed like herself—plain and plump and loud, but nevertheless good-natured. The chubby-looking horse-hair sofa with the round large-patterned cushions reminded Molly strangely of its owner; and so did the round-backed chairs with their thick arms; even the carpet was just like Mrs Jennet would have looked if she had been a carpet. Molly began to wonder what Mr Jennet was like.
“I’ve got a photo of ’im—up there on the mantelshelf—I’ll show you,” said Mrs Jennet in reply to a question from Molly.
But even as Mrs Jennet handed the photo down, Molly felt she knew what he would be like. And she was right. He was exactly like Mrs Jennet would have been if she had been a man.
“He’s a dear old lad,” said Mrs Jennet, eyeing the photo affectionately. “I wish you could have waited to see ’im—but if you do find the old Black Leaf ’e’ll get a ’oliday I expect—every one will. My! Won’t there be celebrations! And we’ll all come down to the City and see you! ’Ave some more milk, duckie?”
Mrs Jennet chattered gaily on, asking and answering numberless questions. Molly asked her if she could tell her of any one she could trust, who lived in the little cottages or farms beyond Lake Desolate.
“Yes, yes. There’s a very nice lady I know lives in one of them—in a little cottage on the side of the Giant’s ’Ead—that’s the name of the ’ill—it’s shaped on top like a huge ’ead. She’s got a sweet, pretty cottage—stays there for ’er ’ealth. She’s away sometimes staying with ’er sister in the City, but I should think she’d be ’ome this time of year. ’Er name’s Lydia North—Miss Lydia we always call ’er. ’Ere, I’ve got a photo of ’er in my album. I’ll show you. She very kindly give me one when she knew I collected photos, bless ’er ’eart!” said Mrs Jennet.
The photo was of a refined, sweet-faced lady. Molly studied it intently so that she would know Miss Lydia when she saw her.
“Thank you very much,” said Molly. “This will be a great help to me. I know one person I can trust anyway.”
But Molly was not to get away as easily as that. Once Mrs Jennet had got her beloved album open she insisted on showing Molly all the photos of her relatives and friends, including Mrs Rose and Farmer Rose.
“I wish you had a photo of yourself about you,” said Mrs Jennet. “I’d like you in the album.”
Molly was sorry she couldn’t oblige her hostess, but admired the collection of photographs with such enthusiasm that Mrs Jennet was enraptured. At length Molly managed to tear herself away, and bidding good-bye to Mrs Jennet, and thanking her warmly for all her kindness, Molly started out once more.
It was now early afternoon. Searching carefully along the road and on either side of it she proceeded slowly. As she went on, the country grew wilder and lonelier. The hills rose up on every side, bare, gaunt hills on which nothing seemed to grow, and at the foot of the hills great rocks and stones were strewn. Molly soon left all signs of the miners’ houses behind her, and as she looked back and could see nothing but the wild scenery all around her—no smoke from a chimney, no sign of human beings at all—she began to feel very small and lost and lonely. But she was not afraid. She realized, after thinking things over, that in the ordinary way the Pumpkin’s spies could not touch her or make her do things by force; it had to be some carelessness or weakness in herself which enabled them to obtain a power over her. She would be very careful in future, and would not trust any one but those people who she knew were her friends. She would be on her guard all the time.
She searched carefully for about an hour, in every likely place along the way, keeping her eyes and ears constantly on the alert. And presently the latter informed her of the galloping of horse’s hoofs in the distance. Looking back along the road she saw a cloud of dust, and by and by a big black horse, on which was seated a man in a slouch hat and flying cape, became visible. Molly glanced round for a place of escape, if necessary, or a place to hide; but there was no place to hide in this barren spot, and no trees near by. So she walked steadily on. So long as it wasn’t the Pumpkin, the man on the horse could not touch her against her will—that is, if he was an enemy. Poor Molly expected every stranger to be an enemy now, of course. Maybe the horse and rider had no business with her at all. Anyway, they came dashing along at full speed, thundering on the road behind her.
Molly drew to the side of the road to let them pass. But they did not pass. She heard, with a sinking heart, the horse gradually slacken its pace till it came alongside her. The man quickly dismounted, made Molly a sweeping bow, and handed her a sealed envelope. Then, without a word, he sprang into the saddle and, turning his horse’s head, galloped back along the road by which he had come, leaving Molly gazing in surprise at the envelope in her hand.
It was all over in a minute. The man and the horse had come and gone. Molly turned the envelope over and over. There was no address on it to say who it was for or where it had come from. Only the word ‘Immediate’ was printed in the top corner. What ought she to do, she wondered. Should she open it? Was it meant for her? Was it from a friend—or was it another trick of the Pumpkin’s? She hesitated, standing still in the middle of the lonely road. Supposing it was a message—something about Jack—something really true. Supposing she didn’t open the envelope—what was she to do with it?
This decided the matter; as she couldn’t think what to do with it if she didn’t open it, she opened it, very cautiously. And this was the letter inside it:
Dear Child,
I know all that has happened. This is to tell you that I have overheard that the Pumpkin has sent out many spies to stop you. One of them is a little old man; a watchmaker he pretends to be. Do not trust him.
Another (and this one is the most dangerous of all) is a certain ‘blind’ woman who has been sent out to meet you on the shores of Lake Desolate. As you value your quest, as you value your poor brother’s life, do not trust this ‘blind’ woman. Have nothing to do with her—do not believe a word she says—but go straight on past the Lake to the Brown Hills beyond. Otherwise, all is at an end for us.
With affectionate remembrance fromOld Nancy
Molly read the letter through several times, very carefully. Then she folded it up and put it in her satchel.
CHAPTER XVIII
Molly Comes to Lake Desolate
DURING the next two hours, while Molly searched the remainder of the road, and the lonely country that lay between the road and the hills on either side, she kept thinking of the letter. And it worried her. She could not make up her mind whether the letter was genuine or not. At first she thought it really was from Old Nancy, and then, because she had resolved to trust no one, she began to suspect that the man on the horse was another of the Pumpkin’s spies and that the letter was faked.
“One part was true,” Molly argued to herself. “About the watchmaker … but then, the spies would know by now that I have found out about the watchmaker, and they would not mind telling me news I already know if they thought it would make the letter seem more genuine. But why should they warn me about this ‘blind’ woman—unless.... Oh, I don’t know. I wonder if it really is from Old Nancy, after all! I wish I had some means of finding out.” And then, after another ten minutes’ search: “I believe it really is from Old Nancy—I’m getting too distrustful,” she said. “Anyway, I’ll wait until I reach Lake Desolate—and then decide.”
Molly climbed to the top of one of the hills, and from there caught her first glimpse of the Lake. It was not far away now; but it was actually no more than a glimpse of the water that she got, because of the hills that surrounded it. She descended the hill, searching all the time—for it would not do to pass by any likely spot in her anxiety to reach some other spot, even if the latter did sound a more probable place for the Black Leaf to be growing in.
Although the water had not looked far away, yet it seemed a long time to Molly before she reached Lake Desolate. Climbing round the side of one of the hills, she at length saw the Lake immediately below her.
It was a great stretch of water, silent, dark, and mysterious, around which the hills stood like sentinels. Across the surface of the water strange birds hovered, flapping their wings and uttering weird ‘screechings,’ as Mrs Jennet had said. Every now and again they would swoop down on the water, or dart across to some trees and rocks on the opposite shore. Molly glanced anxiously around the shores of the Lake, but could not see anything moving, except the birds.
Gradually she made her way down the hillside and stood for a while gazing into the dark, still water. It was well named Lake Desolate, thought Molly, for never had she seen such a deserted, lonely place. As she looked across to the hills beyond, a slight sound made her turn her head. Her heart began to beat rapidly, for coming slowly along the shore of the Lake toward her was a woman dressed in a long, grey cloak. She had a stick in her hand, which she tapped on the ground in front of her, as blind people do.
Molly stood perfectly motionless, so that the blind woman should not hear her move and know that any one was near. The woman came on hesitatingly, tap, tap, tapping with her stick. Molly watched her. The woman passed within a short distance of where Molly was standing—stopped; listened; then moved on.
At that moment one of Molly’s feet slipped a little, and the stones on which she was standing moved, and several trickled down and fell with a plomp into the water. The woman stopped immediately; while Molly bit her lip at her own carelessness.
“Is any one there?” asked the woman, turning, and facing in the direction whence the sound had come.
Molly did not answer, but looked straight at the woman. And as she looked, a puzzled expression came over Molly’s face. Where had she seen the blind woman’s face before? She had seen it; of this she felt certain, and yet— Then suddenly Molly knew. It was the same face that she had seen in Mrs Jennet’s photo album. It was the face of Miss Lydia!
This discovery gave Molly a shock, and sent all her thoughts and plans tumbling helter-skelter over each other. What was she to do now?
Meanwhile, as no reply had been given to her question, the blind woman sighed, and passed on. Molly did not know what to do, or whom to believe. She had never been wrong before in trusting one of her friend’s friends; and this certainly looked like the Miss Lydia of whom Mrs Jennet had spoken. But had Old Nancy written that letter? If so, she would, of course, trust her before any one, and obey her instructions.
“I can’t find out who wrote the letter, at least, not yet,” thought Molly. “But I can find out if she really is Miss Lydia.”
Her mind made up, she stepped forward a few paces, and called in a clear voice:
“There is some one here. Can I help you?”
The blind woman turned eagerly, and groped her way back toward the voice.
“Oh, I am so glad to hear some one speak again—but who are you? Are you a friend?” asked the woman anxiously. “I am so helpless, you know, and—and–”
“I am willing to be your friend, if— But who are you?” asked Molly. “What is your name?”
“My name is Lydia North,” replied the woman. “And I live in a little cottage—up there—somewhere”—she waved her arm vaguely. “On the side of the Giant’s Head.... Oh, tell me who you are, please!”
“I am a little girl,” answered Molly. “And if you are truly Miss Lydia—I am your friend. Tell me what I can do for you.”
“Will you lead me back to my home again? I cannot find my way from here, there seem to be hills all round that shut me in. I cannot find the way out and I am afraid of walking into the water; I nearly fell in just now.”
“How did you get here, Miss Lydia?” asked Molly. “I was hoping to meet you at your cottage—Mrs Jennet told me about you—told me to call and see you.... But I didn’t know that you were—blind.”
“I wasn’t—until the day before yesterday—I think it was the day before yesterday; it seems a long time ago. I am not used to being blind yet, and feel so helpless. I’m so glad you are a friend of good Mrs Jennet’s—then I can trust you,” said Miss Lydia.
This was something new for Molly to have people doubtful whether she could be trusted; it was generally the other way about. But when she had heard Miss Lydia’s story she quite understood. It seemed that Miss Lydia had been away from home for a fortnight, staying with her sister in the City, and had returned home the day before yesterday.
“When I reached my cottage gate,” she continued, “I heard something coming behind me—a sort of soft, rolling sound. Then something touched me—and I could not see any more. I found my way into the cottage somehow—I live alone. I kept thinking my sight would come back. But it did not come back. And this morning—I knew it was morning by the cocks crowing and the clock striking—I started out, determined to find my way down to the High Road which runs below the hill, so that I might get help. But I lost my way. Presently I heard some one walking past me, and they offered to set me right for the High Road, but they led me here, and then they laughed and went away....”
“I suppose you knew who it was that touched you and made you blind?” said Molly.
“I didn’t see any one,” answered Miss Lydia. “But I can guess.”
Poor Miss Lydia, another of the Pumpkin’s victims! Molly felt very sorry for her helplessness in this deserted place. Molly was fairly certain now that the letter she had received was not from Old Nancy. But why had the spies wished to prevent her from helping Miss Lydia? She would find out. If she had not felt sure that this was indeed Miss Lydia, she would have obeyed the letter and gone straight on to the Brown Hills.
“I will lead you home, Miss Lydia,” she said, “if you will trust me. Which is the nearest way?”
“Where are we now?” asked Miss Lydia.
“This is Lake Desolate,” Molly informed her.
“There are several lakes near here,” said Miss Lydia. “But I thought we were somewhere near Lake Desolate, because of the birds.”
So she told Molly to look for a big hill shaped like a head, which was somewhere on the west side of the lake. When Molly saw it, towering up behind the other hills, she took Miss Lydia by the hand and led her away from Lake Desolate.
They passed out of the ring of hills around Lake Desolate, and mounted a hilly path that led toward the Giant’s Head. The country was very beautiful on this side of the Lake, but Molly had no eyes for the beauty of the scene at present. She was trying to puzzle out the meaning of her letter, and the meaning of Miss Lydia’s story. Had the Pumpkin any special purpose in making Miss Lydia blind—or was it just one of his wicked whims? And why had his spies led Miss Lydia to this Lake, and then tried to prevent Molly from helping her? Surely, if the spies had wished to prevent Molly from helping the blind lady it would have been an easy matter for them to keep Miss Lydia out of the way … to have led her to another lake. On the other hand, if they did want her to help Miss Lydia, why had they sent that letter; the chances were that Molly would obey the instructions in the letter. Yes, she certainly might have obeyed them—if she hadn’t seen Miss Lydia’s photo in Mrs Jennet’s album. It was all very puzzling to Molly.
It was rather slow work leading Miss Lydia, as she walked hesitatingly over the rough, uneven ground, but after a time—a long, long time, it seemed to Molly—they reached the Giant’s Head, and started to work their way up and round the side of the hill. Molly sighed as she looked back and thought of all the ground she would have to go over again and search—right from here to the Brown Hills in the distance. But she must see Miss Lydia safely home first, and do anything she could to help her. She found herself wondering how all the other searchers were getting on and whether any of them had finished searching their part of the country yet—or whether any of them were, unknowingly, nearing success.
Rounding the hill, they came in sight of Miss Lydia’s cottage. A pretty, creeper-clad cottage, perched on the hillside, it peeped out of its bushy garden down at the road far below. Behind the cottage the Giant’s Head rose up against the sky. It was a lovely, lonely spot.
Molly led Miss Lydia to the gate. “This is right, isn’t it?” she asked.
Miss Lydia felt the top of the gate. “Yes, this is home,” she said. “Thank you … my dear. I don’t know how to thank you. You’ll come in with me, won’t you? Oh, don’t leave me till I’m indoors.”
“I won’t leave you till you’re indoors,” said Molly, genuinely sorry for Miss Lydia in her helpless plight.
She helped Miss Lydia to open her front door, and the two entered the cottage together.
What would Molly’s feelings have been had she looked out into the garden a moment later, and seen the crouching figure that rose, and emerged from behind a clump of bushes as soon as the door was shut? It was an old woman with little darting eyes and a red scarf wound round her head. Creeping along, the old woman pushed her way through a broken fence at the end of the garden, and, darting behind a group of trees close by, began to signal wildly to some one at the bottom of the hill.