“Then the mollmeit’s got her,” wailed the woman distractedly. “Oh, Jesus! The mollmeit’s got my child!”
“But what do you mean?” repeated Sister in a sterner voice, for she saw that the woman was on the verge of hysteria. “Rosalie went home with all the other children last night, I suppose! Do you mean to say they didn’t bring her to you?”
“No!” said the woman, and in her voice was dreadful despair, “God forgive me, Sister, I was drunk—and asleep—it was not till this morning that I knew she hadn’t been home—at least she wasn’t in the house—since then I’ve been to a dozen houses, and no one knows anything, but some of the children say that on their way home they were frightened by something that jumped out from behind a rock down there where the berg comes near the road—”
“Stuff and nonsense!” broke in Sister scornfully. “Listening to children’s tales! You just go back to the village, Sarah Paton, and look for your child. She’s there right enough. Someone has kept her for the night, knowing the state you were in. You ought to be ashamed of yourself, my woman. Be off now and find her, and when you have found her come straight back here and tell me, and see if you can turn over a new leaf after this.”
Thus with good-natured scoldings she waved the more than half-comforted woman from the door.
“Get back to your bed, Mary, child, and sleep a little longer. It’s not five o’clock yet, and we’ve earned a little lie-abed after the tiring day yesterday. That child’s all right—safely tucked up in some kind soul’s bed, you may be sure. It will be a lesson to that good-for-nothing hussy.”
But Mary though she went back to bed was too disturbed to sleep. She was haunted by the fear of harm having come to little Rosalie, and could not rid herself of foreboding. Why had she not gone down the road herself with the children? She had indeed watched them for awhile from the school door, and had adjured the elders to take the hands of the little ones and see them all safely to their doors. But well she knew the careless, irresponsible nature of the coloured race! No doubt the little ones had soon been allowed to lag behind. Even so, what harm could befall them on that straight road not three quarters of a mile long? Of course the talk of a mollmeit was silly and yet—and yet—Oh! it was no use staying in bed, worrying and fretting. She jumped out and busied herself getting breakfast, making the coffee on a little oil-stove, so that she might have the wood coals for the toast. She then looked into the larder, set the rest of yesterday’s milk in soup plates to thicken for dessert at the mid-day meal; put a little more pepper and salt on the neck of mutton that was for dinner, and turned it in its dish, and placed fresh wet cloths round the big lump of butter that must last till the end of the week. By that time, Sister also was dressed, and together according to custom, they went into the Oratory and said Matins before the small altar. Although she was not a real nun, Sister Joanna never missed saying any of the daily Offices, and at the morning and evening ones Mary always joined her.
It was a nice little Oratory, the floor covered with a soft hand-made rug of red and brown woollen scraps like little autumn leaves, sewn one above the other; several chairs with kneeling-stools before them, and an altar-table that no one would have guessed was made of rough packing-case wood for it was hidden by a scarlet cloth and linen embroidered by the school children, and there were flowers and candles upon it. The many small panes of the one window had been glorified by means of scarlet and purple tissue paper, which cut in sheets and pasted on alternate panes made an excellent substitute for stained glass, and when the sun shone through and fell in a flood of colour upon the patch-work rug, Mary felt a subtle pleasure woven amongst her prayers. Under the window, a large dark oaken chest lent a further air of ecclesiasticism to the little room. It was worm-eaten and full of cracks and holes, but was reputed to have been part of the furniture of a church, and Sister loved it, and kept the altar cloths and holy books in it.
As the two finished their orisons, the sound of voices broke in upon them, followed by a knocking on the door. Once more Sarah Paton stood without, but now several women were with her, and a scattering of children with scared faces and eyes ready to jump out of their heads. There was ill news to tell. Rosalie was not to be found in the village or out of it. No one had seen her since last night, but some of the elder children remembered calling out to her to “Come on” as she loitered sleepily behind. Other smaller children averred that as they were capering along in the rear, “something white” had darted out from behind a rock, and “made noises like a mollmeit.” They were quite unable to describe said noises, but declared that they had all run screaming down the road. Evidently in the pleasurable excitement of this adventure sleepy, lagging Rosalie had been forgotten; and no one thought of her again until with the morning came the weeping mother.
“And I tell you the mollmeit’s got her,” shrieked the unhappy woman once more, while the others gazed apprehensively at Sister Joanna.