Peter assisted Rose Ellen to stuff the remains of her petticoats into the shorts, and put the cap firmly on her head. They had cut her hair very short, but it still curled. The cap fitted very well. Peter then rolled the cut-off pieces of petticoat inside the coarse woollen dress, pushed the bundle well down between the ivy and the trunk of the nearest tree, put on his coat, picked up the fish-basket and his own handbag, and led the way back to the road.
CHAPTER VI
Rose Ellen followed him like a little dog. Peter’s sweater felt warm and light. Every now and then she patted the new shorts approvingly. It was frightfully nice to be a boy. She came out on to the high road with the feeling of having come home. It was home because Peter was there, and because she was Rose Ellen again. She caught Peter up and nuzzled her head against his arm.
“Augustabel—” she said.
“What about Augustabel?”
“Oh, Peter de—ah, she’s in a apple tree.”
“Why on earth—”
“Because of not being allowed to take her there.” Rose Ellen nodded mournfully in the direction of St. Gunburga’s.
“Where is she?”
“In a apple tree—in a garden—belonging to a cottage.”
“Where?” said Peter again.
“It’s the third cottage,” said Rose Ellen. “I always look at the tree when we go to church on Sunday.”
“How did she get there?”
“I was in the cottage, waiting to go—there.” Again the nod indicated St. Gunburga’s. “There was a woman there and she was nice. She said she would like to keep me, and then I could have Augustabel, but she had a husband, and he said no. I don’t like husbands very much, Peter de—ah.”
“How did Augustabel get in the tree?”
“There’s a hole. I put her in when no one wasn’t looking. You’ll get her out, won’t you, Peter?”
Peter said he would. He hoped it wouldn’t take very long, for at any moment there might be a hue and cry after Rose Ellen. It never entered his head, however, that they should abandon Augustabel. He knew Rose Ellen too well.
They stopped outside the wall of the cottage garden, and Peter climbed it, directed in breathless whispers by Rose Ellen, who remained in the road. The tree was the nearest tree but two; and it had a waggly branch that you could play see-saw on; and last year there was a nest in it; and the hole was a little way up, just about as high as Rose Ellen’s shoulder; and would Peter mind telling Augustabel that it was only him, because she might think it was a robber and be most dreadfully frightened.
Peter kept saying “S-s-h” at intervals, but he found the tree and the hole, fished out Augustabel, and rejoined Rose Ellen without much difficulty. They walked on in silence. Rose Ellen had no words; her heart was much too full. She clasped a damp and draggled Augustabel tight, tight in her arms, and trotted beside Peter in a state of fervent happiness.
Peter had used his afternoon to some advantage. He did not take her through Parberry, but struck off to the left amongst the first scattered houses, coming at last by devious ways to the fence which guarded the railway embankment. They climbed over this, and proceeded along the bank until they came to the shunting-yard. Peter seemed to know his way. He dropped down upon the track, passing several vans, and finally came to a standstill beside a truck which was covered with a tarpaulin.
Earlier in the afternoon he had hung about the yard and asked a number of intelligent questions. The truck contained sacks of grain, and it would be attached to the goods train which left Parberry at ten-fifteen.
He loosened the tarpaulin and lifted Rose Ellen up. The sacks were standing in rows, and between the rows were valley-like depressions, not deep, but deep enough for Rose Ellen to lie full length in one, and Peter in another. The tarpaulin covered them. Peter stood his bag on end on the top of one of the sacks; this lifted the tarpaulin and let in some air. They lay in the dark, and ate German sausage and bananas.
Later on Rose Ellen’s hand came feeling softly between the sacks until it touched Peter’s shoulder.
“Peter de—ah,” said a very small voice.
“S-s-h, you mustn’t talk!” said Peter.
“I won’t, if you hold my hand just for a little, Peter de—ah.”
“All right,” said Peter, in a gruff whisper.
He held the hand that first clung to his and presently relaxed; it was a very little hand. By and by they were both asleep.
It was many hours before Peter woke. He was one of those people who come broad awake at once. One minute he was sailing the Caribbean Sea in a pirate ship, and the next instant there he was, very stiff, lying between sacks of grain with a tarpaulin over his head, and realizing that what had waked him was a sharp jerk which meant that their truck was being shunted. The shunting went on for some time, and then ceased.
After listening for a while Peter very cautiously raised the tarpaulin at the end of the truck and looked out. It was light, but not very light. The sun had not risen. Everything looked odd and grey. There were trucks, and railway lines, and a fence. Peter slipped to the ground, extracted his bag and the fish-basket, and woke Rose Ellen.
It was getting lighter every minute. This was quite a strange place, flat and green, not a bit like Parberry. The name of the station was Hastney Mere. They left it behind them and took the road. The sun was rising as they crossed a little bridge and came to a path that led through water-meadows golden with kingcups. The sky looked very new and clean. They sat by the side of the path and ate bread and cheese and oranges. Then they walked on again.
“Where are we going?” said Rose Ellen.
Peter frowned at the sunrise. He had really no idea, but he wasn’t going to tell Rose Ellen that. He said:
“You’ll see,” and then added grandly, “I’m going to find a home for you.”
Rose Ellen repeated the information to Augustabel in a whisper. Presently she said:
“Peter de—ah.”
Peter turned on her.
“Rose Ellen, you’re saying Petah. You’ve been saying it every time.”
“I haven’t, Petah.”
“You have. You’re doing it now.”
She nuzzled her head against him.
“I like doing it, Petah.”
“You’re a little mug, Rose Ellen. What is it?”
“I wanted to know—”
“What did you want to know?”
Rose Ellen stood quite still, and fixed serious brown eyes upon Peter’s face. There was already a little more colour in her cheeks.
“I wanted to know what is my name.”
“Rose Ellen Waring,” said Peter stoutly. “What else should it be?”
Rose Ellen put a finger in her mouth. Her eyes were wet and round.
“They said it wasn’t—they said it was Ellen Smiff—they said it wasn’t never Waring at all—they said I wasn’t your sister, Peter.”
“What does it matter what they say? No, you’re not to cry. Your name is Rose Ellen Waring. Have you got that?”
Rose Ellen nodded. They began to walk again.
“I didn’t like Ellen Smiff. I hated Ellen Smiff.”
“You’re a first-class little mug,” said Peter cheerfully.
“I don’t want my name to be Smiff,” said Rose Ellen. “Ethel Dawkins said it would have to be Smiff f’r ever and ever unless I got married, and she said nobody wouldn’t ever want to marry me,” She ended with a piteous little sniff, and Peter’s heart was melted within him.
“I’ll marry you,” he declared in a spirit of true self-sacrifice. “That is, I’ll marry you if you buck up and don’t cry.”
Rose Ellen winked very hard and turned her adoring gaze upon Peter.
“And then,” she said, “would my name be really Waring? Truly, and really, and f’r ever and ever?”
“Of course it would.”
The path wound among the water-meadows, and presently, finding a little valley, climbed with it to a wood where beeches spread their leaf
less branches over drifts of last year’s leaves.
Rose Ellen had begun to flag. It came home to Peter that they could not go much farther.
“Are you tired?” he said.
Rose Ellen walked a little faster. She said, “No!” rather quickly, and then added in a very small voice, “Augustabel is a little bit tired.”
“All right,” said Peter, “so am I.”
They struck off to the left and found a hollow full of dry leaves. A few very long-stalked primroses grew here and there. Rose Ellen sat down by a clump of primroses and rocked Augustabel. Every now and then she just touched one of the flowers with the tips of her fingers.
They spent the greater part of the day in the wood. The sun shone, and the air was mild. Not a soul came near them. Rose Ellen was very happy.
CHAPTER VII
It was midday on Monday when Mrs. Spottiswoode received a wire from Matthew Waring:
Little girl disappeared from orphanage. Is Peter with you? Please wire at once.
She was too much upset to do anything at once except sob, and gasp, and dab her eyes, and say over and over again: “I knew he was too young to travel alone. I told you so, and you wouldn’t listen to me, Charlotte.”
It was Charlotte who wrote the answer:
Peter left here Saturday morning to go to yon.
By Monday evening a description of Peter and Rose Ellen had been telegraphed to police stations all over the country, and Matthew Waring’s temper was hourly becoming worse.
Peter and Rose Ellen had spent the night in the beech wood to which they had returned after a pleasant afternoon excursion, in the course of which Peter obtained milk in a bottle and some hard-boiled eggs from a farm; he explained quite truthfully that he was camping out.
The night was fine and warm. Peter heaped beech leaves over them both, and they slept like birds in a nest. But the morning dawned red.
“Where are we going?” said Rose Ellen when they had breakfasted.
Peter didn’t know; that was the trouble—he didn’t know at all. He led the way back to the path, and they followed it until it came out upon a heathery upland covered with sheep tracks. It was a wide place, and empty. They walked on and saw no house.
They sat down amongst the heather, ate their midday meal, and afterwards Rose Ellen fell asleep, curled up like a kitten, with Augustabel in her arms. Peter did not mean to sleep, but a drowsiness came over him. When at last he woke the sunshine was gone. He waked Rose Ellen, and they took the road again. The sky was all clouds, and a small, cold wind blew across their path. The way seemed very long.
“Are you cold, Rose Ellen?” said Peter.
Rose Ellen shivered, and shook her head.
“Honest injun?”
Rose Ellen hesitated, and looked away.
“Augustabel is just a teeny bit cold,” she said.
Peter put his coat on her. The wind grew colder. He looked about and found a hollow, where they rested for a while. The sky began to darken and the clouds to hang down. There was not a house in sight.
Peter put down his bag and the now empty basket and walked a little way. About a quarter of a mile farther on the ground began to slope downwards. He could see trees in the distance.
Peter stood still and looked at the trees. There was a dreadful heaviness upon him. He had brought Rose Ellen here, and he must find shelter for her. The wind promised a stormy night, and Rose Ellen was too little to be out all night in the rain. Peter stood there, frowning dreadfully; and, still frowning, he put up the first real prayer that he had ever prayed.
“I don’t know what to do,” he said. “I don’t know where there’s a place for Rose Ellen. I expect You know. I expect You are bound to know. There must be a place for her, and a proper home, not an institution one like that beastly St. Gunburga’s, because she’s too little not to have a proper home and someone to take care of her. And please let us find it quickly, because it’s going to rain like anything, and Rose Ellen isn’t old enough to be out all night in the ram, she really isn’t.”
Peter concluded this very unorthodox prayer in the orthodox manner, and went back to Rose Ellen. He found her shivering in spite of his coat. They went on, following the downward slope and making for the trees. Long before they reached them, rain had begun to fall in torrents, soaking them to the skin. Rose Ellen walked more and more slowly. Then, with the coming of darkness, the rain ceased and the wind drove a track through the clouds, leaving a clear space from which a cold, white moon looked out.
They came through the trees, black trees dripping mournfully, and found themselves on the edge of a metalled road. A few hundred yards down this road a village church stood, ivy-covered. The ivy dripped too. The road took a sharp turn just here and ran between high stone walls.
Peter’s spirits rose. A church was no good; churches were always shut. But opposite the church, behind the other wall, was a house, and it seemed inconceivable to him that any house should not mean at least temporary shelter for Rose Ellen. As the thought went through his mind, a door in the right-hand wall opened suddenly, and a maid-servant came running out. She had a cloak over her head, and she seemed to be in a hurry. Peter heard a man whistle a few yards down the road. The girl ran to meet him.
Without an instant’s hesitation Peter took Rose Ellen by the hand and went through the door in the wall. They found themselves in a funny, narrow alleyway with flagstones underfoot and very high brick walls on either hand; it was almost like a tunnel. At the far end of it light streamed from an open door—light and warmth. Peter looked in, and saw a large scullery opening into the kitchen beyond. He knocked and waited. Rose Ellen pressed against him, trembling with cold. No one came. He knocked again. And then Rose Ellen did a surprising thing. Quite suddenly she pulled her hand out of Peter’s and ran into the house. Peter followed.
The kitchen was empty. Peter looked longingly at the generous fire, but Rose Ellen had already run out into the passage beyond. There was nobody in the passage, but a sound of voices and cheerful laughter came from a room on their left.
Rose Ellen ran along the passage until she came to the back stairs. She was on the tenth step when Peter’s whisper reached her, “Rose Ellen, come down!” but Rose Ellen never turned her head. Peter caught her up as she opened the door which led on to the first-floor landing. Her little, drenched feet had left wet marks on every step.
“Come back, Rose Ellen!” said Peter.
Rose Ellen shook her head.
“Augustabel won’t go back,” she said. “Augustabel likes this house. Oh, Peter de—ah, she likes it very much indeed.”
The landing had a soft, rich carpet on the floor. The light was soft and rich. A long corridor stretched in front of them, with a shaded light burning at the far end. On their right there was another passage, unlighted except by the moon which shone in through live long windows. The windows had arched tops like church windows. The moonlight lay in five broad bars upon the polished floor.
“Come back, Rose Ellen! You must!” said Peter, in a dreadfully piercing whisper; but Rose Ellen only shook her head again, and darted down the moonlit passage.
Opposite the windows there were doors. One door was a little open. Peter stopped to look in, but the room was dark. As he stopped, he put out his hand and touched something hot. A large radiator filled the space between this door and the next. Peter’s heart leapt for joy. They could hide in one of the rooms and dry all their clothes! It was really a surprising bit of luck.
Meanwhile Rose Ellen had opened the door at the end of the corridor and come, still running, into a large room which was quite light because the moon shone straight in through two tall windows. Peter followed, and Rose Ellen clutched at him.
“Oh, Peter, Peter de—ah,” she said, “Oh, Augustabel does like this house, she does.”
The room was a nursery. There were bars to the tall windows, and a high wire guard about the empty fireplace. The mild head of a rocking-horse looked out of one corner at them. There
was cork carpeting on the floor. There were soft woolly rugs.
“Take off your wet things, Rose Ellen,” said Peter, severely practical.
Rose Ellen sat down on a woolly mat and took off her wet shoes and stockings, the drenched serge shorts, and Peter’s sweater.
“My petticoat isn’t so dreadfully wet,” she said.
Peter felt it, and frowned. Then he took one of the woolly mats and wrapped it round Rose Ellen and Augustabel.
“There’s a hot place for these to dry. I won’t be a minute,” he said, and went out.
He had reached the radiator when he heard the sound. It was like someone moving softly. In an instant he had slipped through the half-open door, and stood on the threshold of the dark room, holding his breath and listening. The sound was coming nearer. Peter leaned forward very cautiously, and saw that someone was coming along the corridor, a lady in a dark, traily dress. She stood still in one of the moonlight patches. She looked very sad, very sad indeed, and sort of hungry. She was looking at the wet footmarks on the passage floor. And then, all of a sudden, a really dreadful thing happened. Rose Ellen opened the nursery door. Peter couldn’t stop her; he couldn’t do anything.
She opened the door and came running out, a queer, pathetic little figure with bare arms and legs, and a draggly, wet petticoat cut off above the knees.
The lady looked up at the sound of the opening door. She saw Rose Ellen in the moonlight, and, for a moment, she thought—who knows what she thought? She stood leaning against the wall, and then with a little gasping, sobbing breath she slipped into a half-sitting, half-kneeling position.
“I thought,” she whispered, “I thought …” and then, “No, no.”
Rose Ellen stood and looked at her. They looked at each other. Rose Ellen’s eyes began to fill with tears; they brimmed over. The lady put out both her arms, and Rose Ellen ran straight into them.
Peter came out into the passage. He was clasping Rose Ellen’s wet clothes. He heard the lady say:
“You little, little thing, you’re wet.” And then she looked up and saw Peter, and made a sound like a very faint scream.
The Annam Jewel Page 5