mona's first thought was to avoid being seen by anyone who would recognise her; her second—that she must keep out of sight as much as possible until her dress was dry, and her face less disfigured, for anyone meeting her now would stop her to enquire if she had met with an accident.
by keeping along the shore for some little distance it was possible to get out on to the high road to milbrook, but it was not an easy path to travel. it meant continued climbing over rocks, ploughing through loose, soft sand, or heavy wet sand, clinging to the face of a cliff and scrambling along it, or wading through deep water.
what her new pink frock would be like by the time she reached the road mona did not care to contemplate. "it will be ruined for ever— the first time of wearing, too," and a sob caught in her throat as she remembered how her mother had toiled to get the material, and then to make the dress. now that she was losing her she realised how much she had grown to love her mother in the short time she had lived with her, and how good and kind lucy had been. it never occurred to her that she was doubling her mother's trouble by running away in this cowardly fashion. indeed, she would have been immensely surprised if anyone had hinted at such a thing. she was convinced that she was doing something very heroic and self-denying; and the more she hurt herself clambering over the rough roads, the more heroic and brave she thought herself. and when, at last, she stepped out on the high road, and realised that she had seven miles to walk to her grandmother's house, she thought herself bravest of all, a perfect heroine, in fact.
already she was feeling hungry, for breakfast had been early, and patty and philippa had only been able to spare her a slice of bread and butter and a biscuit.
on she trudged, and on, and on. a distant clock struck three, and just at the same moment she passed a sign-post with 'milbrook, 6 miles,' painted on one arm of it, and 'seacombe, 1 mile,' on another.
"then she had six long tiresome miles to walk before she could get a meal!" she thought. "if she did not get on faster than she was doing, it would be dark night before she reached hillside cottage, and granny would be gone to bed. she always went to bed as soon as daylight began to go. how frightened she would be at being called up to let mona in!"
the thought quickened her steps a little, and she covered the next mile in good time. she ran down the hills, and trotted briskly along the level. she got on faster in that way, but she very soon felt too tired to continue. her legs ached so badly she had no heart left for running. now and again she leaned back against the hedge for a little rest, and oh, how she did wish that it was the blackberry season! she was starving, or felt as though she was.
by and by, when she had quite despaired of ever reaching granny's that night, she caught sight of a cart lumbering along in the distance, and a man sitting up in it driving. it was the first sight of a human being that she had seen since she started, and she welcomed it gladly. "perhaps it's going my way, and will give me a lift." the thought so cheered her that she went back a little way to meet the cart. when she drew nearer she saw that it was a market cart, and that the driver was a kindly-looking elderly man. every now and again he talked encouragingly to his horse to quicken its pace. between whiles he sang snatches of a hymn in a loud, rolling bass.
as soon as he saw that mona was waiting to speak to him, he stopped his singing and drew up the horse.
"good evening, missie," he said civilly. "are you wanting a lift?"
"oh, please—i wondered if you would—i am so tired i can hardly walk."
"um! where were you thinking of going?"
"to hillside——"
"um! you've got a brave step to go yet. we're a good three miles from hillside. have 'ee come far?"
"from seacombe," mona admitted reluctantly.
"my word! it's a brave long walk for a young thing like you to take alone. why, you wouldn't reach hillside till after dark—not at the rate you could go. you look tired out already."
"i am," sighed mona, pathetically.
"here, jump up quick, or my old nag'll fall asleep, and i'll have the works of the world to wake un up again."
mona laughed. "thank you," she said, eyes and voice full of gratitude as she clambered up the wheel, and perched herself on the high, hard seat beside her new friend. "i'm very much obliged to you, sir. i don't believe i'd ever have got there, walking all the way. i didn't know seven miles was so far."
"i don't believe you would. a mile seems like two when you ain't in good trim for it, and the more miles you walk, the longer they seem. gee up, you old rogue you!" this to the horse, who, after much coaxing, had consented to move on again.
"i never felt so tired in all my life before," sighed mona, in a voice so faint and weary that her companion looked at her sharply.
"had any dinner?" he asked.
mona shook her head. "no, i—i missed my dinner. i—i came away in a hurry."
"that's always a bad plan." he stooped down and pulled a straw bag towards him. "i couldn't eat all mine. my wife was too generous to me. p'raps you could help me out with it. i don't like to take any home—it kind of hurts my wife's feelings if i do. she thinks i'm ill, too. can you finish up what's left?"
he unrolled a clean white cloth and laid it and its contents on mona's lap.
"could she!" mona's eyes answered for her.
"do you like bread and ham? it may be a trifle thick——"
"oh!" gasped mona, "i think bread and ham, thick bread and ham is nicer than anything else in the world!"
"um! peg away, then. and there's an orange, in case you're thirsty."
"oh, you are kind!" cried mona, gratefully. "and oh, i am so glad i met you, i don't believe i'd have got much further, i was feeling so faint."
"that was from want of food. here, before you begin, hadn't you better put something about your shoulders. it's getting fresh now the sun's gone down, and when we get to the top of that hill we shall feel it. have you got a coat, or a shawl, or something?"
"no, i haven't. i—i came away in a hurry—but i shall be all right. i don't mind the cold."
"i should think you were in too much of a hurry—to have forget your shawl, and your dinner, too. wasn't there anybody to look after you, and see you started out properly?"
"no."
"you ain't an orphan, are you?"
"oh, no, i've got a father and a stepmother——"
"oh-h!" meaningly. "is that the trouble?"
mona fired up at once in defence of lucy. "no, it isn't. she's just the same as my own mother. she's so kind to me—if she hadn't been so kind i—i wouldn't have minded so much. she sat up last night to—to finish making my frock for me." her words caught in her throat, and she could say no more.
her companion eyed first her disfigured face, and then her bedraggled frock. "it seems to have seen trouble since last night, don't it?" he remarked drily, and then the words and the sobs in mona's throat poured out together.
"that's why—i—i'm here. i can't go home and show her what i've done. it was so pretty only this morning—and now——" then bit by bit mona poured forth her tale of woe into the ears of the kindly stranger, and mr. dodds sat and listened patiently, thoughtfully.
"and what about your poor father and mother and their feelings," he asked when mona had done.
"oh—oh—they'll be glad to be rid of me. they'll be better without me," said mona, with the air and voice of a martyr.
"um! if you're certain sure of that, all well and good, but wouldn't it have been better to have went back and asked them? it does seem a bit hard that they should be made to suffer more 'cause they've suffered so much already. they won't know but what you've been carried out to sea 'long with your poor mother's tonic."
mona did not reply. in her inmost heart she knew that he was right, but she hadn't the courage to face the truth. it was easier, too, to go on than to go back, and granny would be glad to see her. she would be sorry for her, and would make much of her. granny always thought that all she did was right.
in spite of her feelings, though, mona finished her meal, and felt much better for it, but she presently grew so sleepy she could not talk and could scarcely keep on her seat. mr. dodds noticed the curly head sink down lower and lower, then start up again with a jerk, then droop again.
"look here—what's your name, my dear?"
"mona—carne," said mona, sleepily, quite oblivious of the fact that she had given away her identity.
"well, mona, what i was going to say was, you'll be tumbling off your seat and find yourself under the wheel before you know where you are; so i'd advise you to get behind there, and curl down into the straw. then, if you draw my top-coat over you, you'll be safe and warm both."
mona needed no second bidding. she almost tumbled into the clean, sweet-smelling straw. "thank you," she was going to say, as she drew the coat up over her, but she only got as far as 'thank,' and it seemed to her that before she could say 'you,' she was roused again by the cart drawing up, and there she was at her grandmother's gate, with granny standing on the doorstep peering out into the dimness. she thought she had closed her eyes for only a minute, and in that minute they had travelled three miles.
"is that you, mr. dodds?" granny called out sharply. "whatever made 'ee come at this time of night? 'tis time your poor 'orse was 'ome in his stable, and you in your own house!"
"i've come on purpose to bring you something very valuable, mrs. barnes. i've got a nice surprise for 'ee here in my cart. now then, little maid, you've come to the end of your journey—and i've got a brave way to go."
mona was still so sleepy that she had to be almost lifted out of the cart.
"what! why! mona!" then, as mona stumbled up the path she almost fell into her grandmother's arms. "what's the meaning of it? what are they thinking about to send 'ee back at this time of night! in another few minutes i'd have been gone to bed. i don't call it considerate at all."
"they don't know," stammered mona. "i wasn't sent, i came. oh, granny, don't ask about it now—let me get indoors and sit down. i'm so tired i can't stand. i'll tell you all about it tomorrow."
but tired though she was, she turned back and thanked her rescuer. "i'd have been sleeping under a hedge to-night, if it hadn't been for you," she said gratefully.
"oh, what i did isn't anything," he said amiably. "'tisn't worth speaking about. i don't doubt but what you'd do as much for me, if i wanted it. good night, mrs. barnes. take care of yourself, ma'am, it's a bit fresh to-night. good night, little maid. gee-up, nettle, my son."
what he had done was a mere nothing, as he said. but what he did do before the night was over was a very big something. between two and three hours later he was in seacombe, and knocking at peter carne's door.
"i knew you'd be anxious, so i thought i'd just step along and let 'ee know that your little maid's all right," he said quietly, making no mention of the seven long miles he had tramped after he had fed and stabled his horse for the night.
"anxious!" lucy lay half fainting in her chair. peter's face was white and drawn with the anguish of the last few hours. neither of them could doubt any longer that mona had been swept off the rock and out to sea. nothing else could have kept her, they thought. patty and philippa had told where they had last seen her, but it was four o'clock before they had come out of school and heard that she was missing. so the crowds clustering about the shore had never any hope of finding her alive.
peter carne almost fainted, too, with the relief the stranger's words brought him. the best he had dared to hope for when the knock came was the news that mona's body had been washed in. the revulsion of feeling from despair to joy sent him reeling helpless into a chair.
humphrey dodds put out his arms and supported him gently. "i didn't know, i ought to have thought, and told 'ee more careful like."
"where is she?" gasped lucy.
"safe with her grandmother—and there i'd let her bide for a bit, if i was you," he added, with a twinkle in his eye. "it'll do her good."
they tried to thank him, but words failed them both. they pressed him to stay the night, he must be so tired, and it was so late, but he refused. a walk was nothing to him, and he had to be at work by five the next morning. "but i wouldn't say 'no' to a bit of supper," he said, knowing quite well that they would all be better for some food.
then, while lucy got the meal ready, peter went down to tell his good news, and send the weary searchers to their homes.
over their supper mr. dodds told them of mona's pitiful little confession. "it doesn't seem hardly fair to tell again what she told me, but i thought it might help you to understand how she came to be so foolish. it don't seem so bad when you know how it all came about."
when he had had his supper and a pipe, he started on his homeward way, with but the faintest chance of meeting anyone at that hour who could give him a lift over some of the long miles.
little dreaming of the trouble she was causing, mona, clad in one of her grandmother's huge, plain night-gowns, and rolled up in blankets, slept on the old sofa in the kitchen, as dreamlessly and placidly as though she hadn't a care on her mind.
overhead, grannie barnes moaned and groaned, and tossed and heaved on her bed, but mona slept on unconcerned and happy. even the creaking of the stairs when granny came down in the morning did not rouse her. the first thing that she was conscious of was a hand shaking her by the shoulders, and a voice saying rather sharply, "come, wake up. don't you know that it's eight o'clock, and no fire lit, nor nothing! i thought i might have lain on a bit this morning, and you'd have brought me a cup of tea, knowing how bad i've been, and very far from well yet. you said you did it for your stepmother. it's a good thing i didn't wait any longer!"
mona sat up and stretched, and rubbed her eyes. "could this be granny talking? granny, who had never expected anything of her!"
no one feels in the best of tempers when roused out of a beautiful sleep, and to be greeted by a scolding when least of all expecting it, does not make one feel more amiable.
"i was fast asleep," she mumbled, yawning. "i couldn't know the time if i was asleep. you should have called me." she dropped back on her pillow wearily. "oh, i'm so tired and i am aching all over. i don't believe i'll ever wake up any more, granny. why—why must i get up?"
"to do some work for once. i thought you might want some breakfast."
this was so unlike the indulgent granny she had known before she went away, that mona could not help opening her eyes wide in surprise. then she sat up, and, as granny did not relent, she put her feet over the edge of the sofa and began to think about dressing.
"what frock can i put on, granny?" it suddenly struck her that it would not be very pleasant to be living in one place while all her belongings were in another.
"the one you took off, i s'pose."
"but i can't. it isn't fit to wear till it has been washed and ironed. it wants mending, too. i tore it dreadfully."
"um! and who do you think is going to do all that?"
mona stared again at her granny with perplexed and anxious eyes. there used to be no question as to who would do all those things for her. "i don't know," she faltered.
"well, i can't. i haven't hardly got the strength to stand and wash my own few things, and i'm much too bad to be starching and ironing frocks every few days. better your stepmother had got you a good stuff one than such a thing as that. if she had, it wouldn't have been spoilt by your falling on the seaweed. nonsense, i call it!" granny drew back the curtains sharply, as though to give vent to her feelings. the perplexity in mona's mind increased. she was troubled, too, by the marked change in her grandmother. in the bright morning light which now poured in, she noticed for the first time a great difference in her appearance as well as in her manner. she was much thinner than she used to be, and very pale. her face had a drawn look, and her eyes seemed sunken. she seemed, somehow, to have shrunken in every way. her expression used to be smiling and kindly. it was now peevish and irritable.
for the first time mona realised that her grandmother had been very ill, and not merely complaining.
"i'll light the fire, granny, in a minute—i mean, i would if i knew what to put on."
"there's one of your very old frocks upstairs, hanging behind the door in your own room. it's shabby, and it's small for you, i expect, but you'll have to make it do, if you haven't got any other."
"it'll do for the time, till my pink one is fit to wear again."
"yes—but who's going to make it fit? that's what i'd like to know. can you do it yourself? i s'pose you'd have to if you was with your stepmother."
"no, i can't do it. do you think mrs. lane would? i'd do something for her——"
her grandmother turned to her with a look so full of anger that mona's words died on her lips. for the moment she had forgotten all about the quarrel.
"mrs. lane! mrs. lane! after the things she said about you—you'd ask her to do you a favour? well, mona carne, i'm ashamed of you! don't you know that i've never spoken to her nor her husband since that day she said you'd pulled down the faggots that threw me down, and then had left her cats to bear the blame of it. i've never got over that fall, and i've never got over her saying that of you, and, ill though i've been, i've never demeaned myself by asking her to come in to see me. i don't know what you can be thinking of. i'm thankful i've got more self-respect."
mona's face was crimson, and her eyes were full of shame. oh, how bitterly she repented now that she had not had the courage to speak out that day and say honestly, "granny, mrs. lane was right, i did pull over the faggots and forgot them. it was my fault that you tripped and fell— but i never meant that the blame should fall on anyone else."
she longed to say it now, but her tongue failed her. what had been such a little thing to start with had now grown quite serious.
when her father had wanted her to come home, he had consoled himself for taking her from granny by the thought that she had neighbours and friends about her for company, but now it seemed that she would rather die alone than ask their help, or even let them know that she was ill.
mona turned despondently away, and slowly mounted the stairs. "if you do ever so little a thing wrong, it grows and grows until it's a big thing! here's granny all alone, 'cause of me, and mother all alone, 'cause of me, and worrying herself finely by now, i expect, and—and i shouldn't wonder if it makes her ill again," mona's eyes filled at the thought, "and—and i never meant to be a bad girl. i—i seem to be one before i know it—it is hard lines."
she unhung her old frock from behind the door, and in the chest of drawers she found an old apron, "i shall begin to wonder soon if i've ever been away," she thought to herself, as she looked at herself in the tiny mirror.
"puss, puss, puss," called a voice. "come along, dears. your breakfast is ready."
mona stepped to the window and peeped out. mrs. lane was standing with a saucer of bread and milk in each hand. at the sound of her voice her two cats came racing up the garden, chattering as they went, and she gave them their meal out there in the sunshine. as she turned to go back to the house she glanced up at granny barnes', and at the window where mona stood. perhaps she had been attracted by the feeling that someone was looking at her, or she may have heard something of mona's arrival the night before.
for a second a look of surprise crossed her face, and a half-smile—then as quickly as it came it vanished, and a look of cold disapproval took its place.
mona felt snubbed and hurt. it was dreadful to have sunk so low in anyone's opinion. it was worse when it was in mrs. lane's, for they used to be such good friends, and mrs. lane was always so kind to her, and so patient, and, oh, how mona had loved to go into her house to play with her kittens, or to listen to her stories, and look at the wonderful things captain lane had brought home with him from some of his voyages.
captain lane, who had been a sailor in the merchant service, had been to all parts of the world, and had brought home something from most.
mona coloured hotly with the pain of the snub, and the reproof it conveyed.
"i can't bear it," she thought. "i can't bear it—i'll have to tell."
she went down to the kitchen in a very troubled state of mind. life seemed very sad and difficult just now.
granny was sitting by the fire, a few sticks in her hand. "it's taken me all this time to get these," she said pathetically, "and now i can't stoop any more. what time we shall get any breakfast i don't know, i'm sure, and i'm sinking for the want of something."
"i'll get you a cup of tea soon. i won't be any time." it cheered her a little to have something to do, and she clutched at anything that helped her not to think. she lighted the fire, swept the hearth up, and laid the cloth. then she went out to sweep the doorstep. it was lovely outside in the sweet sunshine. mona felt she could have been so happy if only—— while she was lingering over her task, mrs. lane came out to sweep her step and the tiled path, but this time she kept her head steadily turned away.
"i'll go right in and tell granny now this minute," thought mona, her lip quivering with pain. "then, perhaps, we'll all be friends again. i can't bear to live here like this."
but when she turned into the kitchen the kettle was boiling, and her grandmother was measuring the tea into the pot. "get the loaf and the butter, child, i feel i can eat a bit of bread and butter this morning."
mona got them, and the milk, and some more coal to make up the fire, and all the time she was saying over and over to herself different beginnings of her confession. she was so deeply absorbed in her thoughts that she did not notice the large slice of bread and butter that her grandmother had put on her plate.
"don't you want it?" granny asked sharply. "why, how red you are, child! what have you been doing to make your colour like that. you haven't broken anything, have you?"
her tone and her sharpness jarred on mona cruelly, and put all her new resolutions to flight. "no, i haven't," she said, sullenly. "there wasn't anything to break but the broom, and you saw me put that right away."
granny looked at her for a moment in silence. "your manners haven't improved since you went home," she said severely. "if i'd spoken to my grandmother like that, i'd have been sent to bed."
a new difficulty opened before mona's troubled mind. if she was rude, or idle, or disagreeable, the blame for it would fall upon lucy, and that would be an injustice she could not bear. now that she had lost her she realised how good lucy had been to her, and how much she loved her. for her sake, she would do all she could to control her temper and her tongue.
she had coloured again—with indignation this time—hot words had sprung to her lips in defence of lucy, but she closed them determinedly, and choked the words back again. she felt that she could say nothing; she felt, too, that lucy would not wish her to say anything. she could not explain so as to make her granny understand that it was not lucy's fault that she was rude and ill-tempered. it was by acts, not words, that she could serve lucy best. and for her sake she would try. she would try her very hardest to control her temper and her tongue. the determination brought some comfort to her poor troubled heart. at any rate, she would be doing something that lucy would be glad about.
her confession, though, remained unspoken.
