Peter watched her coming. She walked slowly, and as if she were tired. Her head was bent. When she looked up, and Peter saw her face, he knew straight away all the things which he had come here to find out. He knew at once that he would have to take Rose Ellen away. She was thin, and her pretty colour was gone. There were big black marks under her eyes like smudges. She looked like a doll that had been left out in the rain, but there was something more than that, something which made Peter feel as he had never felt in all his life before, something which he never forgot. It was the patient look in Rose Ellen’s eyes as she lifted them to look at the trees. Peter often wished that he could forget it; but he never could.
Peter’s feelings always translated themselves into action with the smallest possible delay. He took an acid drop out of his pocket and threw it deftly at Rose Ellen. It just grazed her cheek, and she put up a hand, touched the place, and then went on looking up with the same steady, unseeing gaze. Peter threw another acid drop. It hit her on the nose, and this time Rose Ellen looked down, stooped, picked up the sweet, and stood there staring at it.
Peter made a speaking-tube of his hands.
“Rose Ellen!” he said.
Rose Ellen tilted her head and looked straight up into the sky.
“Rose Ellen!”
She looked all round in a bewildered fashion. Peter stuck his head out through the ivy.
“Rose Ellen!” he said a little louder.
And then she saw him. Just for a moment every vestige of colour drained out of her little face. Then her hands went up under her chin, tightly clasped together. The colour came back with a rush, making her look like the old Rose Ellen, and she said in a little whispering voice with a deep sigh in it:
“Oh, Peter de—ah.”
Peter could hardly hear the words, but he knew very well what they were. He nodded at Rose Ellen, and said in a terrific stage whisper:
“I’ve come to fetch you away.”
Rose Ellen sighed again. She shook her head slowly.
“You can’t,” she said.
“Why?” said Peter.
Rose Ellen didn’t know why. She only knew that dreadful, cold finality of unhappiness which paralyses hope and effort. She shook her head again. Peter frowned horribly at her.
“I’ll get you away tonight,” he said. “You’ve got to do what I tell you. Do you hear? You’ve got to do exactly what I tell you. You’ve got to get into the playground as soon as it’s dark, and come down to this corner. I’ll do the rest.”
Peter’s words were large, and his tone assured. He had, as a matter of fact, not the slightest idea of how he was going to get Rose Ellen over the wall. He only knew that he was going to get her over it. Rose Ellen shook her head once more.
“I can’t,” she said.
“If Peter had been upon solid earth he would have stamped his foot. As it was, he could only produce a murkier frown and a more aggressive whisper:
“You’ve got to! I shall be here. I shall be here all night until you come. You’ve got to come! Then I shall take you away, and you’ll be ever so jolly.”
He had time and only just time, to finish what he had to say. A bell began to ring with loud, clanging strokes.
Rose Ellen turned and ran back along the way by which she had come. The playground emptied. The bell stopped ringing.
CHAPTER V
Peter climbed down into the field behind the hedgerow. He had no watch, but he guessed that it must be getting on for three o’clock. The sun would set at about half past six. It would be at least twenty minutes later before it would be safe for him to get Rose Ellen over the wall—no, twenty minutes wasn’t enough. He looked at the sky. The day had been grey, and here on the upland the clouds hung low. There were more clouds, blacker ones, away on the horizon; that would help. It might be dark enough at seven. He would just have to wait and see.
He hoped Rose Ellen would not do anything stupid. That was the worst of girls, you never knew where you were with themdreadfully clever one minute, and simply too stupid for words the next.
He had four hours. He began to tick off on his fingers what he had to do. First—plans:
1. A plan to get over the wall himself.
2. A plan to get Rose Ellen over the wall.
3. A plan to get them both away from Parberry.
4. A plan of what to do with Rose Ellen when they had both got away.
Peter concentrated on the first plan. He climbed the hedgerow, and went and measured himself against the wall. He was five foot three and three-quarters, and the wall appeared to be eight feet high, leaving a balance of two feet eight and a quarter inches in favour of the wall. This required thought.
Peter backed away from the wall, frowned at it ferociously, and thought. Then he descended into the ditch at the foot of the hedgerow, and began to tug at the lopped boughs which lay half in, half out of it. Some were too heavy for him to move, others rotten and slimy; but after a while he pulled one or two quite useful ones clear of the rest. They were good, stout limbs with some side branches and knobby excrescences. Peter laid them handy, and considered that plans one and two were in good train. There was nothing more for him to do here until it began to get dusk. He therefore cut back across the fields, reached the high road, and walked down the hill into Parberry.
Rose Ellen sat on a hard wooden form, and sewed on a long, hard seam. The large classroom with its bare windows and stone floor was cold. Rose Ellen’s hands were cold. If she lifted her head from her work she could see more forms and desks, rows and rows of them, stretching away in front of her, with a teacher’s desk like a sort of watch-tower at the far end.
Miss Jones was the teacher. She was the sort of person who sees everything. She could see in an instant if you stopped sewing, or dropped you thimble, or knotted your thread. Then she would rap on the desk with a ruler and say, very loud and high, “Ellen Smith, attention!” Or it might be, “Gladys Clark!” or “Violet Brown!” But it was very often “Ellen Smith!”
Ellen Smith was Rose Ellen. She didn’t know why she was Ellen Smith, and she hated being Ellen Smith; but that was the way it was. She went on sewing, with little cold fingers that made a great many mistakes. She always did make mistakes, but today she made more than usual because she was thinking about Peter. Every time she thought about him, something inside her said, “Oh, Peter de—ah,” and a crying feeling came into her throat and eyes. She did not cry, because Ellen Smith had learnt not to cry. It seemed a long, long time since Peter had talked to her over the wall. Really it was only about three hours, but it seemed a long time. They had had afternoon lessons and tea, and now the sewing-class was nearly over. Some of the girls had finished already and were putting their work away in the desks which stood between the forms. Miss Jones had come down from her watchtower and was walking down the line, looking at the work before it was put away. She came to Rose Ellen and made a clicking sound with her tongue.
Rose Ellen stood up, her legs shaking a little, and saw Miss Jones mark her work in two places with a blue chalk cross.
“Carelessness and inattention,” said Miss Jones. “You will stay behind and do this piece again.” She passed on.
Rose Ellen took her seam and began to unpick it. All the piece between the blue crosses had to be unpicked and done again. It was heavy, unbleached stuff, very cold to handle.
The other girls got up and went out. Miss Jones returned to her watch-tower and sounded a bell. A monitress came in and lit the gas; then she, too, went out and shut the door.
There was half an hour allowed for recreation before bedtime. Rose Ellen very often missed it. She would miss it tonight. Every now and then she looked up at the darkening windows. Peter would be waiting out there. He had said that he would wait there all night. Rose Ellen thought and thought, and could see no possible way in which she could obey Peter and get out into the playground that night. It was just one of those things which could not be done. On the other hand, Peter said, “Do it!” When Pe
ter said to do a thing, Rose Ellen always did it.
She went on sewing. Miss Jones had taken a novel out of her desk and was reading it. The classroom door opened so suddenly that she had not time to close the book before Ethel Dawkins, the monitress, came up to her, rather breathless.
“Please, Miss Jones, Miss Featherstone wants to speak to you immediate.”
Miss Jones got up in a flurry. Miss Featherstone was the Principal, and no one ever kept her waiting.
“Put your work away, Ellen Smith,” she said. “Put out the gas and lock up the classroom when she’s finished, Ethel. The keys are on my desk.” She spoke the last word at the door, and was gone.
Rose Ellen got up gratefully and stretched herself. Then she looked round with some apprehension. Ethel Dawkins was a bully, and Rose Ellen was afraid of her. To her surprise she was alone in the classroom. Ethel had followed Miss Jones down the passage.
Rose Ellen put her work into her desk, and walked up to the top of the room. It was nice to walk after sitting still for so long. She looked idly at the teacher’s desk. And then the great idea came to her.
Miss Jones’ novel still lay on the desk. The keys were lying there too; Ethel had not taken them with her. There were two keys on a big ring. One of them locked the door of the classroom and the inner door that led from the classroom to the cloakrooms beyond; and the other, the bigger key, locked the door which led from the cloakroom passage into the playground.
Rose Ellen took the keys. She was dreadfully, dreadfully frightened, because at any moment Ethel might come back. Peter had said, “Come!” and she always did what Peter said. She took the keys in a very cold hand that trembled, and ran to the cloakroom door. It was locked. She unlocked it, and passed into the dark passage beyond.
Rose Ellen was frightened of the dark. She ran down the passage, past the black cloakrooms which opened upon it, and came to the outer door. She unlocked it. Then she ran back again. If she could put the keys back on Miss Jones’ desk, nobody would dream that she had gone outside. Ethel would only think that she had followed her along the passage.
She reached the desk, put down the keys, and then remained rooted to the ground with terror. Her hands clasped each other very tightly, her legs shook. Ethel was coming back, running! She came in rather flushed.
“Oh, lor’, Moony Loony, what a time you’ve been!” she said. “It ’ud serve you right if I left you ’ere a bit longer. P’r’aps you’d ’urry up and get finished with your betters another time if I did.”
She crossed to the desk, picked up the keys, and put out the nearest gas-light. A second light burned farther down the room over the place where Rose Ellen had been sitting. Ethel moved towards this, talking all the time and jangling the keys
“I’ve ’arf a mind to lock you in in the dark,” she said. “’Ow’d you like that, Miss Loony Whiteface, eh?”
She turned, with the chain that controlled the gas-light in her hand, and fixed malicious eyes on Rose Ellen’s rigid figure.
“Sulky, are you?” she said. “You just answer when your betters speak to you, or I’ll put it across you, my lady. Wot, you won’t? Obstinate, are you? All right, stay ’ere in the dark, and think it over!”
She gave the chain a vicious jerk as she spoke, and then made a dash with a view to intercepting any similar move on Rose Ellen’s part. With her hand on the door, she spoke again.
“You ’aven’t been a-learnin’ of your catechism,” she said. “Order meself lowly and reverently to all me betters—that’s your motter, Loony, and don’t you go fergettin’ it again. You can say it over to yerself in the dark for a bit.”
She slammed the door, only to open it again and say in sepulchral tones:
“Don’t you ferget as this is the ’aunted classroom.”
Then she shut the door again, and waited about a yard away from it, ready, if Rose Ellen cried out, to rush in and silence her, or, if one of the staff approached, to open the door quickly and appear to be ushering Rose Ellen out.
Rose Ellen stood in the pitch dark, the dark which she hated and feared. She kept on saying, “De—ah Peter. Oh, Peter de—ah,” to herself. And when she heard Ethel move away from the door she made a most desperate effort and ran on tiptoe to that other door, the inner one which led to the cloakroom passage.
If you have to do things, you can do them. Peter always said that. Rose Ellen knew that she must go down the cloakroom passage. It didn’t matter if she was afraid, she had to do it. It had been bad enough when she went to unlock the outer door, but then the light from the classroom had followed her, and now there was not one scrap of light anywhere.
She went very slowly, touching the wall. Three cloakrooms opened into the passage. She thought of them as black caves, empty and cold. She dared not run lest Something should come out of one of those empty places and catch her. She came to the outer door. Her little hands shook so much that she could scarcely open it. She had to strain and tug. Then it swung inwards, and she slipped through the opening and shut it behind her. The passage had been quite dark, black dark, but the playground was a grey dusk full of shadows: you couldn’t see anything, but it was only grey, not black.
Rose Ellen crept towards the left-hand wall. She wanted to get close to something that she could touch. The curtainless windows of St. Gunburga’s stared at her. She reached the wall and leaned against it. All the windows were watching her. She could hear a rustling sound in the trees beyond the wall. She must go to Peter; she just had to. She went. It was at this moment that Ethel Dawkins opened the door of the classroom and, in a piercing whisper, called Rose Ellen’s name. As there was no reply, she bounced into the room and struck a match. The empty room frightened her, but when the full gas-light failed to disclose Ellen Smith in a dead faint on the floor, she convinced herself that the dratted little Loony must have given her the slip either at the moment of her opening the door, or when she was putting out the lights. She put them out again now, grumbling to herself, locked up the classroom, and, meeting Miss Jones in the hall, handed her the keys. Subsequently she deposed with great fluency to having seen Ellen go upstairs.
Peter was waiting upon the top of the wall. He had spread a sweater over the broken glass, but the seat could not be described as a comfortable one. He hoped Rose Ellen would not be very long. When he heard her little, hesitating footsteps, he felt a certain glow of pride. He had told her to come and she came.
He said, “Hullo!” and heard her answer with a piteous catch of the breath:
“Peter?”
Peter had reached the top of the wall by dint of using a strong bough with cross-branches as a ladder.
He now hauled and tugged at this bough, got it on to the top of the wall and lowered it, butt-end first, until it rested in the angle formed by the corner. Next moment he had scrambled down into the playground, landing with a thud that drew a little gasp from Rose Ellen.
She did not speak when he got up, but clutched him very tight and trembled. Peter gave her a hug, told her she was a brick, and came at once to business.
“Now, Rose Ellen, I’m going to put you up on the top of the wall. You must climb on my back. I’ll kneel down, and you must stand on my shoulders. Catch hold of this branch—feel, it’s quite firm—and steady yourself whilst I get up. It won’t be difficult, and you’re not to be a little mug and get frightened. There’s my coat and a sweater on the top of the wall, so you won’t get cut. Now, come on!”
He got down on his knees, grasping the butt-end of the branch, and Rose Ellen climbed easily to a standing position on his shoulders. Then came the ticklish part of the job. Peter said, “Are you ready?” and began to get on to his feet, bearing down upon the branch and leaning forward so as to keep Rose Ellen well in the angle. There was one dizzy moment when he felt her swing backwards, but she caught at the wall and got her balance again. Now that Peter was standing, Rose Ellen could hold on to the coping, and her head was clear of the wall. Peter put his hands up.
“I�
�m going to push you on to the top of the wall with my hands under your feet. Right foot first. Feel for my hand and hold on all you can.”
Rose Ellen had stopped shaking. She did exactly as she was told. She was light, and Peter was strong. Lifting and straining, he pushed her up high enough to get her knee on to the place where his coat covered the glass. The rest was easy.
Peter swarmed up the branch, dropped it down on the other side, lowered Rose Ellen, and followed her, bringing his coat with him. He had two surface cuts, and was very much out of breath; but the thing was done. He picked up the sweater from the grass where it had dropped with Rose Ellen, and entered upon the next stage of the proceedings.
“Take off that dress,” he said, and Rose Ellen obeyed. “Now put this on.”
He handed her the sweater.
“Am I going to be a boy?”
“I expect so.”
“But my petticoat shows, Peter de—ah.”
Peter felt in the dusk. The petticoat, of the same old-fashioned make as the discarded dress, stood out below the sweater in a deep, stiff frill.
Peter was in a dilemma. If she took the petticoat off, Rose Ellen would be cold. If she kept it on, she would certainly attract attention. It was at this moment that the rhyme of “The Little Old Woman” came to his assistance—the little old woman who went to sleep upon the King’s highway, and
By there came a pedlar whose name was Stout,
He cut her petticoats all round about,
He cut her petticoats up to her knees …
Peter extracted a clasp-knife from his pocket and began to cut Rose Ellen’s petticoats all round about, only he went one better than the pedlar, and took them off, not up to her knees, but a good two inches above them. Then he groped in the grass, until he found a heavy fish-basket. He had purchased it in Parberry for threepence, and it contained a German sausage, a loaf of bread, half a pound of cheese, eight penny buns, six bananas, and two oranges. On the top of the bananas and oranges there was a cheap serge cap and a pair of dark-blue shorts.
The Annam Jewel Page 4