CHAPTER IV.
A YOUNG AUSTRALIAN.
David was quite right when he said his sister was not like other girls. There was a certain element of wildness in her; she had sweet manners, a gracious bearing, an attractive face; but in some particulars she was untamed. Never had that terrible strong temper of hers been curbed. More than one of the servants in the old home at Ballarat had learnt to dread it. When Flower stormed, her father invariably left home, and David shut himself up in his own room. Her mother, an affectionate but not particularly strong-minded woman, alone possessed sufficient courage to approach the storm-tossed little fury. Mrs. Dalrymple had a certain power of soothing the little girl, but even she never attempted to teach the child the smallest lessons of self-control.
This unchecked, unbridled temper grew and strengthened with Flower’s growth. When under its influence she was a transformed being, and David had good reason to be afraid of her.
In addition to an ungovernable temper, Flower was proud; she possessed the greatest pride of all, that of absolute ignorance. She believed firmly in caste; had she lived in olden days in America, she would have been a very cruel mistress of slaves. Yet with it all Flower had an affectionate heart; she was generous, loyal, but she was so thoroughly a spoiled and untrained creature that her good qualities were nearly lost under the stronger sway of her bad ones.
After her mother’s death Flower had fretted so much that she had grown shadowy and ill. It was then her father conceived the idea of sending her and David to an English family to train and educate. He could not manage Flower, he could not educate David. The Maybrights were heard of through a mutual friend, and Flower was reconciled to the thought of leaving the land and home of her birth because she was told she was going to another mother. She dried her eyes at this thought, and was tolerably cheerful during the voyage over. On reaching England the news of Mrs. Maybright’s death was broken to her. Again Flower stormed and raged; she gave poor little David a dreadful night, but in the morning her tears were dried, her smile had returned, and she went down to Sleepy Hollow with the Doctor in fairly good spirits.
The young Maybrights were all on their best behavior—Flower was on hers, and until the day of the picnic all went well.
It did not take a great deal to rouse first the obstinate pride of this young Australian, and then her unbridled passions. Associate with a servant? No, that she would never, never do. Show Polly that she approved of her conduct? Not while her own name was Flower Dalrymple. She let all the other happy children go down to the banqueting-hall without her, and strode away, miserable at heart, choking with rage and fury.
The Dalrymples were very wealthy people, and Flower’s home in Ballarat was furnished with every luxury. Notwithstanding this, the little girl had never been in a truly refined dwelling-house until she took up her abode in old-fashioned Sleepy Hollow. Flower had taken a great fancy to Helen, and she already warmly loved Dr. Maybright. She was wandering over the moor now, a miserable, storm-tossed little personage, when she saw his old-fashioned gig and white pony “Rowney” approaching. That old gig and the person who sat in it—for Dr. Maybright drove himself—began to act on the heart of the child with a curious magnetic force. Step by step they caused her to turn, until she reached Troublous Times Castle almost as soon as the Doctor. She did not know why she was coming back, for she had not the remotest idea of yielding her will to Polly’s. Still she had a kind of instinct that the Doctor would set things right. By this she meant that he would give her her own way and banish Maggie from the scene of festivity.