Knock Three Times!

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.

CHAPTER XIX

Molly Looks Through Miss Lydia’s Window

MOLLY led Miss Lydia into the cottage parlour—a dainty, fresh little room—and brought a chair forward into which Miss Lydia sank gratefully.

“Can I get you anything? Shall I make you some tea?” suggested Molly cheerfully.

There was no answer, and then she saw that Miss Lydia was crying softly to herself.

“Oh, dear! I’m so sorry, Miss Lydia,” said Molly, distressed. “Oh, what can I do? Is there anything you’d like me to do?”

“I don’t know what to do,” said Miss Lydia. “I feel so helpless here alone. If only I could get a message through to my sister in the City, she’d come to me immediately—if she knew. What shall I do?… You have been so good to me—it’s a shame to bother you with my troubles, though.”

Molly sat down on a chair opposite to Miss Lydia, and tried to decide what to do. Molly felt very perplexed and troubled herself. It seemed cruel to leave Miss Lydia here alone in this deserted spot, and yet if she took her with her it would cause so much delay, and time was getting short now.

“Have you no friends near here that I could fetch for you?” asked Molly.

Miss Lydia shook her head. “No one very near. I came to live in this lonely little house away from my friends, so that I could get on with my work. I am an artist—I was an artist,” she corrected herself. “I cannot paint pictures now. I cannot watch the sun sink over the hills nor see the stars reflected in the water. What shall I do? What shall I do?” she sobbed bitterly.

“Oh, don’t, don’t, Miss Lydia!” begged Molly. “Listen. I know what I’ll do. Tell me the address of the friends who live nearest here, and I will go and fetch them. I will bring them back myself—and then go on my way. You will not mind being left for a short time, will you?”

“No,” said Miss Lydia. “I don’t feel I dare go out again. I will wait here. You are so good to me. I do hope I am not giving you too much trouble.”

By this time Molly had quite made up her mind that Miss Lydia was sincere; no doubt of her sincerity entered Molly’s mind until happening to glance out of the window she saw some one dodge out of sight behind a bush in the garden—some one with a red scarf bound round her head.

Molly’s knees began to shake. What could this mean? What was the old woman with the horrible eyes doing here in Miss Lydia’s garden? Was it a trap? She looked over at Miss Lydia who was sitting patiently where Molly had placed her. Molly moved softly toward the window, and stood, hidden by the window curtain, looking out. In a few seconds she saw the old woman’s hand come round the side of the bush and make a signal toward the hedge by the fence. The hedge stirred a bit. So there was some one else hiding there, thought Molly. She turned to Miss Lydia. The sight of the blind woman’s gentle face reassured her. No, if this was a trap, Miss Lydia had nothing to do with it; Molly felt sure of that. Anyway, she decided that it was better to tell Miss Lydia what she had just seen in the garden.

Miss Lydia was terribly agitated at first, and cried, and seemed so upset that she made Molly want to cry too.

“But we must be brave, Miss Lydia,” said Molly. “Trust me, and do what I tell you, will you?” she urged. “We must help each other all we can. I will help you with my eyes, and you must help me with your ears—listen and tell me what you hear. And you can help me by telling me where to find things and all that.”

Miss Lydia calmed down gradually, and promised to aid Molly as much as possible.

Molly’s first act was to ascertain that all the windows were locked and the front and back doors bolted. While seeing to these things she discovered that there were two other spies lurking in the back garden. One looked something like the figure of the old watchmaker, only he was dressed differently. The other man she had not seen before. They were both badly concealed among some tall plants and ferns.

“Why are all the spies gathering here together?” Molly asked herself. “Do they know I’ve seen them, I wonder. They don’t mean to let me get out of this house. They seem to be watching all round it.”

“What can you see? What can you see?” asked Miss Lydia, pleadingly.

Molly told her. “I don’t think they can hurt us—so long as we keep indoors. They’re only guarding the house to see that I don’t get away, until–” Molly broke off; “until the Pumpkin comes,” was what she had been going to say, but there was no need to set Miss Lydia trembling afresh.

Molly herself was in such a state of excitement, darting noiselessly from one window to another, comforting Miss Lydia, and telling her what she could see, that there was hardly time to be very frightened.

Miss Lydia divided her attention between the front door and the back, listening anxiously at each in turn. Presently she remembered something, and called quietly to Molly:

“There is a little room at the very top of the house, in the roof, a room I use as a studio,” she said. “If you go up you will have a better view of the garden, and will be able to see far outside the garden, over the hedges as well.”

“I will go at once and see what I can make out,” said Molly. “But I saw no stairs leading up any higher.”

“They are in the cupboard on the landing,” was Miss Lydia’s reply. “I’ll wait here by the front door.”

Molly dashed upstairs, found the cupboard on the landing, and, opening the door, saw the concealed stairs. She ran up these to the studio. There were four windows in the studio, one on each side of the room. She looked out of each in turn, taking care to keep well back in the room so as to be out of sight. There were splendid views from these windows. She could see clearly now the old woman still crouching behind the bush in the front garden. She could see, too, who was behind the hedge; it was the girl in green who had met them in the Third Green Lane and decoyed them to the old woman.

From the window that looked out on to the back garden she saw the other two spies still hiding there, and a third spy hiding a little farther away from them. Her eyes wandered round the garden, then all at once she gave a gasp as she caught sight of something that made her heart seem to stop beating for a moment, then start to hammer madly at her side.

It was a large Black Leaf, growing in the garden bed, just behind where the two spies were hiding; so that from the lower windows they had hidden it completely from her eyes.

Molly could scarcely believe it for a moment, and looked again to make sure. Yes; it was the Black Leaf at last!

Now she understood the presence of the spies here, and their anxiety to keep her away from the garden, which contained the Leaf they dared not touch. And now she understood the reason why the Pumpkin had made Miss Lydia blind.