Have you ever thought about what fiction is? Probably, such a question may seem surprising: and so everything is clear. Every person throughout his life has to repeatedly create the works he needs for specific purposes - statements, autobiographies, dictations - using not gypsum or clay, not musical notes, not paints, but just a word. At the same time, almost every person will be very surprised if he is told that he thereby created a work of fiction, which is very different from visual art, music and sculpture making. However, everyone understands that a student's essay or dictation is fundamentally different from novels, short stories, news that are created by professional writers. In the works of professionals there is the most important difference - excogitation. But, oddly enough, in a school literature course, you don’t realize the full power of fiction. So using our website in your free time discover fiction for yourself. Polly: A New-Fashioned Girl by L. T. Meade (rooftoppers .TXT) 📖
- Author: L. T. Meade
Book online «Polly: A New-Fashioned Girl by L. T. Meade (rooftoppers .TXT) 📖». Author L. T. Meade
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.[Pg 124]
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 me
To 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 did[Pg 125] very 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.
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, I will, 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 all[Pg 127] stand 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—the Guide—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
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