Mary was almost in despair. She thought, as she moved restlessly round and round in the darkness under the great trees, for a time which seemed to her quite awful in its length and hopelessness, that there must be respectable people in Carsham who would help her if she could get hold of them—police if she knew where to find them—a clergyman's house, if she could venture to apply to a total stranger. Mary was a shy, reserved girl, and had lived all her life at lonely Markwood—but now she would have had courage to do anything, if she had only known what to do. In the meanwhile, it grew darker every moment; the autumn night, black and starless, was settling down on Carsham Fair.
CHAPTER VII
IN THE DARK
"I stood alone (as some forsaken lamb
Goes bleating up the moors in weary dearth)
Crying, 'Where are ye, O my loved and loving?'"
—E. B. BROWNING.
John Randal did not wait for much explanation from his mother. In truth, she had little to give him. It was impossible for her to imagine where Mary and the child were gone, unless to the fair. Why, in any case, should Lily have been dressed in her Sunday clothes? And though Mrs. Randal agreed heartily with John when he said—"But Polly never would take her there!" yet the moment after she was shaking her head and sighing over the certainty that, for some unknown reason, this was what Polly had done. Poor old Granny Pierce had no object to gain by telling a lie about it, as far as she could see. "No, John dear—Polly never would!" said Mrs. Randal. "But then you know, if she did, of course she meant to bring her home before dark. The child got round her, I expect. She did want to go, Lily did. It seemed a bit hard, with all the other children going. If you'd been at home, John, maybe you would have taken her yourself, just for an hour or so. Don't vex yourself over it too much. They'll be in soon, anyhow."
John's face grew sterner and graver every moment.
"No, mother, I should never have taken her. What's the good of leading a child like that into low sights and low company! I could never have believed it of Mary. Why, only yesterday, when I said good-bye before I started, she says to me that all her family was going to the fair, and that she was coming down to tea with you and Lily. Ay, says I, that's right, and mind Lily don't get away with the others—for that child is like quicksilver, I said, there's no holding her; she flies here and there like a little winged spirit. And Mary, she says, Never you trouble, John, she is safe with your mother and me. Well, I'm vexed with Mary, that's the truth, and I'm bound to tell her so."
John turned to take up his hat and stick.
"You'll stop and have some tea, my dear?" said his mother. "The kettle's boiling."
"No, mother, I can't swallow my tea. They ought to have been in long before this," said John. "I'm going straight off to look for them. Ay, and I'll take the lantern; for it'll be as black as a wolf's mouth in an hour."