'Dark and dank, where the toad doth creep,And the dusk-loving bat haunts the shadows deep.'
'Dark and dank, where the toad doth creep,And the dusk-loving bat haunts the shadows deep.'
'Dark and dank, where the toad doth creep,And the dusk-loving bat haunts the shadows deep.'
Greatwas the excitement in the family at the news of Aunt Helen's engagement, and equal were the lamentations when it became known that, instead of settling down near them as a pleasant and desirable uncle, Mr. Neville intended to carry his bride back with him to India as soon as matters could possibly be arranged, for he held a high position under Government in an outlying province, and could only be spared on short leave. Poor Aunt Helen was torn in two between the lover of her youth and the children of her adoption; but I really believe, when she saw Bobby's tears, that if Father had not put his foot down firmly, she would have thrown up everything, and clung to her bairns.
As it was, the house seemed entirely upset. Miss Jones, the village dressmaker, was installed in the Rose Parlour, and appeared to be stitching morning, noon, and night; the postman's bag was quite heavy with patterns and catalogues of Indian outfits; while distant relations and old acquaintances, who had neglected the Abbey for years, kept Nancy in a state of perpetual agitation by turning up suddenly to pay congratulatory calls.
'If they'd only send a letter to say they'd be coming,' she complained, 'one would have a chance to be ready for 'em. But old Mrs. Osborne arrived o' Monday, with me in the midst of my washing, and never a bit of cake in the house; and there was Squire Henley and his lady o' churning day, and I had to leave the butter half made to bring in tea; and ten to one there'll be someone more o' Friday, when I'm cleaning my kitchens. What with visitors all days of the week, and Miss Jones with her snippings and mess in the parlour, I, for one, shall be glad when the wedding is over, though how the house is to go on without Miss Vaughan goodness only knows.'
Peggy and Bobby liked the fun of the preparations, though they crept out of the way of the visitors as much as possible, for to be shown up in the drawing-room involved an amount of dressing and tidying which did not fit in at all with their ideas of holiday enjoyment, and they much preferred a picnic tea in the orchard, with Rollo and the rabbits for company, to the more select charms of the best china and the stately patronage of the neighbouring dowagers.
Lilian was busy trying to grow up suddenly and be ready to take Aunt Helen's place, for she was old enough now to realize how much responsibility would rest with her when she must manage the reins of the household alone, and she was determined that Father should feel as little discomfort as possible from the change.
So the younger ones were left more than ever to their own devices, to amuse themselves as they liked, and to get into mischief or not, according to the whim of the moment. I am afraid, if there was any mischief in the case, the blame generally rested with Peggy, forit was her enterprising mind which planned out the schemes of enjoyment.
It was certainly Peggy who suggested sitting on the top of the haystack, and making it sway backwards and forwards like a swing, a delightful sensation while it lasted, but which ended suddenly in the collapse of the whole top of the stack, much to Father's wrath, for it took David a couple of hours to repair the damage, and certainly did not sweeten the old man's already crusty temper. It was also Peggy's most inopportune idea to ride the brown cow round the pasture on the very afternoon that Mrs. Davenport was paying a stiff call in the drawing-room. She gave Bobby a leg up on to Brindle's broad back, and had just succeeded in scrambling inelegantly behind him, when the astonished quadruped paused in her task of cropping the succulent grass and buttercups, and realizing that something unusual was oppressing her, fled in mad career over the meadow, with the delighted children clinging desperately to her horns.
'Hoop-la! Yoicks! Tally-ho! I believe she'll take the fence!' shouted Peggy in anything but a quiet and young-lady-like tone of voice.
'Gee up! Let her go! Hooray!' yelled Bobby, striking such a whack on Brindle's heaving side that she settled the matter by suddenly lying down to roll, and depositing her encumbrances in the miry ditch.
The children jumped up in fits of laughter, but they sobered down considerably at the sight of the shocked faces of Aunt Helen and Mrs. Davenport, who were walking towards them over the pasture.
Mrs. Davenport was a tall, majestic, long-nosed lady, the wife of a clergyman in a neighbouring village. She ruled both the parish and her meek little husband with a rod of iron, and her mission in life seemed to be tofind out that everybody else was wrong, and to try to set them right again. She had five darlings of her own, in whom she could see no fault, and whom she invariably held up as models of good behaviour to all the children of her acquaintance.
Peggy and Bobby loathed the little Davenports, who were mild, pale, neat-looking little girls, so alike that each one seemed merely a copy of the next, a size smaller, and who always wore gloves, even in the garden, and never dreamed of tearing their pinafores, or using slang, and wentonprim little walks with their governess, instead of scrambling over the fields; and, I grieve to say, that on the few occasions when they met, they had taken such a positive pleasure in leading their inoffensive companions into places which resulted in soiled dresses and dirty boots, that Mrs. Davenport discouraged the acquaintance as much as possible, never feeling easy even for the life and limbs of her progeny when they were in the society of 'those terrible young Vaughans,' and revenging herself by scathing remarks upon manners and deportment, which were extremely trying to the feelings of Aunt Helen, who naturally thoughtherchildren superior in every way to 'those mealy-faced little Davenports, who look as if they had not the strength or spirits to enjoy themselves, even if they were allowed to try.'
Mrs. Davenport came up now, picking her way daintily over the pasture, in her best dress, and expressing her disapproval in her usual emphatic tones.
'I hope you are not hurt,' she said, eyeing Peggy severely, and distinctly hesitating before she accepted the grimy hand which that young lady offered in the agitation of the moment. 'Such an accident might have provedmostserious. I have known a childdevelop a spinal complaint from a far less fall, and I should have thought you were old enough, Margaret, to restrain your brother from such foolish feats, instead of encouraging him. Dear me, you must be nearly twelve, I believe—the same age as my Bertha, and she is already beginning to help me with the parish accounts and spends all her spare time knitting for the Deep Sea Missions. I am thankful to say none of my girls are tomboys! If you will take my advice, Miss Vaughan, you will urge your brother to see at once about getting a good, strict governess to take charge of these children when you leave. A little wholesome discipline is just what they require. Indeed, I know of a lady who would exactly suit him; not too young, but stillmostenergetic. Lived seven years with my cousin, the Hon. Mrs. Lyttleton at Bratherton Hall, and just leaving, having prepared the youngest boy for school. And I can assure youtheirmanners are everything that could be desired, and she is able to impart a style and a finish which, living so wholly in the country, is most important. A truly admirable housekeeper. Your dear Lilian is, of course, young and inexperienced—and——'
But here Mrs. Davenport's remarks, which had been wafted along in gusts, died away in the distance as she departed down the pasture to inspect the hen-coops, and hint broadly for the gift of a couple of young pullets, 'for yours are such an excellent breed, dear Miss Vaughan, and such capital winter layers. I shall only be too delighted to add them to my stock, since you are so kind as to offer them, though really I am afraid you will think I never come to the Abbey without taking something away with me.'
Which was exactly what Aunt Helen did think, though she was too polite to say so, for Mrs. Davenport was well known to have an extreme partiality for presents, perhaps considering them as only her due in exchange for so much good advice.
The children looked at one another with rather long faces.
'I had no idea she was there,' said Bobby in an awe-struck whisper, 'or we would have run away to the orchard. You don't think Father would really be likely to get us that governess, do you?'—the horrible possibility of the lady, still energetic, though no longer young, and evidently capable of so much in the way of discipline, quite casting a gloom over his youthful spirits.
'No, no,' said Peggy hurriedly; 'he can't afford it. That's one comfort in not being well off, at any rate. And you know he said Lilian was to do the housekeeping. Oh, I don't think he would like that kind of a governess any better than we should ourselves—' privately hoping that Father's notions of self-sacrifice would not make him see fit to inflict so great a penance on himself and his family.
But the very idea that such a course had evidently been suggested made the children uneasy, and kept them for several days at a pitch of sedate behaviour calculated to calm down Aunt Helen's possible fears for their future welfare, and to render unnecessary the criticism of the most faithful and interfering of friends.
Perhaps it was the natural reaction arising from this very unwonted state of affairs, or merely the desire to keep as much as possible out of the way of afternoon callers, that put it into Peggy's head one close, sultry afternoon that they should go and explore a cave which lay on the river at no great distance from the Abbey meadows.
That such a cave existed the children knew well,for Joe had once been inside, and had told them wonderful stories of smugglers in bygone days, and of kegs of brandy, and bales of silk and lace, and boxes of tea and tobacco, which were still supposed to be hidden in its depths, only waiting for some enterprising spirit to discover their hiding-place and bring them to light again.
'And I don't see whyweshouldn't find them as well as anybody else,' said Peggy with enthusiasm. 'Just think of yards and yards of silk as stiff as paper, and old French lace, all yellow with age! We shouldn't care about the brandy, but Father and David would like the tobacco, and Mrs. Davis and old Ephraim should have some of the tea. And we might find money, too. Smugglers always had bags of money—spade guineas, you know, and Spanish doubloons, and all those kinds of things you read about in books.'
Having a very shrewd suspicion that Father and Aunt Helen might not approve of such an escapade, Peggy took care not to mention her plans, and the children started off, feeling like a pair of conspirators, with the stable-lantern, a few extra pieces of candle, and a box of matches.
At the bottom of the meadows which bounded the Abbey land the river took a sharp turn past a few bold cliffs which rose almost sheer out of the water, and by scrambling along the rocks at the base it was possible to get round this headland and reach the low entrance of the cave, which was raised only a few feet above the level of the river.
The mouth was overgrown with hazel-bushes and brambles and long, trailing twines of ivy, and it seemed to the children as if no foot but theirs had disturbed it for a long time. Peggy looked at Bobby, and Bobby looked at Peggy, and I think each felt justa little inclined to hang back, though neither would have confessed it for worlds; then, with the solemn air of a Guy Fawkes, Peggy lighted the lantern, and boldly plunged into the darkness, with Bobby following particularly closely at her elbow. At first the entrance was rather narrow and low, but it soon broadened out until the roof was ten feet or more above their heads. The sides of the rocky walls bulged out into irregular shelves, covered in parts with moss, and moist and clammy with slowly-dripping water.
'Those will be the smugglers' cupboards that Joe spoke about,' said Peggy, flashing the lantern into every nook and cranny, but with no success, for there was never a sign of a box of tea or a keg of brandy to be seen.
The air was close and damp, and their footsteps raised strange echoes as they went, and loud voices seemed so out of place that, with one accord, the children spoke in whispers.
'O-o-gh! something soft flapped in my face then!' exclaimed Bobby.
Peggy held up the lantern over her head, and a number of bats, disturbed by the light, dropped from the roof where they had been suspended and whirled round the cave, 'cheeping' angrily for some moments, and opening their tiny jaws at the children in quite a threatening manner, till Bobby clapped his hands, and they flew off to find their way into some deeper retreat.
'Come along,' said Peggy; 'let's go higher up. There's nothing to be found here.'
Clinging together, the two walked with some caution, and it was well they did so, for the floor of the cave was suddenly interrupted by a chasm, which seemed to have rent the earth in two, and was so deep that they could not see to the bottom. It was spanned by aplank, green with slime and rotten with age, placed there perhaps by the smugglers as a means of retreating to a more secure hiding-place.
Peggy flashed the light over the dark abyss to the still more gloomy depths beyond, but even her foolhardiness did not prompt her to try so perilous a bridge.
'We'll get Joe to come some time with a new plank, and help us across, and then perhaps we may find something,' she said rather hurriedly, in case Bobby might expect her to continue the explorations.
But that hero suggesting that it must be after teatime, she cordially agreed with him, and they began to retrace their steps to the entrance, feeling just a little disappointed, for somehow they had imagined a smugglers' cave would be a jolly, dry sort of a place, with at least a few remains of its former tenants strewn about—a pistol or two, perhaps, or a coil of rope, or a rusty dagger, just sufficient to give an air of romance to the adventure, even if the missing treasure were not forthcoming.
The air seemed to have grown more close and sultry while the children were within the cave, and, just as they reached the mouth, a low, grumbling sound, which they had heard for some time, but not taken much notice of, broke into a crash of thunder that seemed to make the ground shake beneath them, while at the same instant a brilliant streak of lightning flashed zigzag across the sky, lighting up the gloom behind them to its furthest recess.
The storm had broken. Peal after peal of thunder rent the air, echoing in the cavern till Peggy and Bobby clung to one another in terror, while the rain came down in a perfect deluge, with such tropical fury that it seemed as if the very sky were descending. Crouched down on the floor by the entrance, thechildren waited for the storm to pass by, wondering at the vivid pink flashes and the size of the hailstones which beat in through the hazel-bushes. A little runnel of water, flowing uncomfortably near, brought Peggy to her feet with a sudden cry.
'Bobby! Bobby! the river is rising, and the rocks are covered. We cannot get round the point to the meadow again!'
It was but too true, for the sudden violence of the storm had swollen the mountain-streams that fed the river, and the once-placid waters were flowing past in a brown, turbulent flood, which seemed to sweep everything along in its course. The stones over which they had scrambled were completely covered, while waves were dashing against the face of the cliff. Here and there a dead sheep or pig drifted by, or a portion of a haystack; a hurdle floating like a raft bore on it a few disconsolate fowls, clucking dismally; while an occasional wash-tub or upturned table showed that the river must have already flooded some of the low-lying cottages higher up on its course.
The children looked at each other with blanched faces.
'We must stay where we are for the present,' said Peggy, trying to speak bravely, 'and perhaps the water will fall soon, and we shall be able to get home.'
But the water did not fall. Each moment it seemed to flow with even swifter current, and to be rising with terrible sureness nearer and nearer the mouth of the cave. It was already growing dusk, and distant rumblings among the hills showed that the storm was still raging over the Welsh border, and sending down its torrents of rain to swell the already overflowing river.
Hungry, and chilly from the damp moisture that oozed down the walls, the poor children sat quietlyhuddled together watching the cold gray surface of the water, which seemed like some cruel monster ever creeping nearer and nearer to infold them in its treacherous grasp.
'Perhaps Father will guess where we've gone, and come for us with a boat,' suggested Bobby. 'I wish he would be quick. It's so cold and horrid here, and I want my supper.'
'Perhaps he will,' replied Peggy, as hopefully as she could, though in her heart of hearts she knew that the cave was about the last place anyone would dream of searching for them.
There was a long silence; then, 'It's getting dark now,' said Bobby, 'and the water is beginning to wet my feet.'
'We must go back into the cave,' said Peggy. 'We shall be quite dry there, for the ground shelves up. See, I'm going to light the lantern again. What a good thing we brought several pieces of candle!'
The mere effort of having something to do cheered them up a little. They hunted about to find as dry a spot as possible, and put the lantern up upon one of the shelves of rock, so that it should cast as much light as it could around the cave. Then they sat down to wait again, for what seemed to them an eternity of time.
The mouth of the cavern loomed like a great eye, growing gradually fainter and fainter as the daylight faded and the darkness grew outside. The river flowed by with a dull, roaring sound, and the little channel had risen from the entrance, and began to lap gently on the floor. The moisture dripped from the walls in loud-sounding drops, and the bats had awakened again, and flew to and fro towards the lantern with a soft whir of wings. When the lastfaint patch of light faded from the opening Bobby's bravery gave way, and the poor little fellow's tears chased each other down his cheeks as he crouched in a miserable heap on the damp ground.
'I want to go home!' he wailed. 'Why doesn't Father come to fetch us? Don't you think they know where we are?'
Peggy flung her arms round him in an agony of self-reproach.
'Oh, Bobby darling! it's all my fault, for I made you come, and wouldn't let you tell where we were going, though you said we ought to ask leave first! Put your head on my shoulder, and try to go to sleep. Perhaps Father may find us after all, or the river will have gone down by morning, and we shall be able to scramble round by the rocks.'
'I must say my prayers first. Aunt Helen always comes into my room and hears them last thing before I get into bed.'
'Say them with me to-night,' said Peggy, with a lump in her throat, as she knelt by his side, thinking that perhaps Aunt Helen, too, was praying at that moment that her dear ones might be safe.
The old, familiar words seemed to have new meaning in them, said in the midst of the darkness and the danger, and the children felt that, though their earthly Father might be seeking far and wide for them in vain, they were known and cared for by 'our Father which art in heaven,' to whom the darkness is the same as daylight, and in whose sight not even a sparrow falls to the ground unnoticed.
Bobby fell asleep at last, with his head on Peggy's knee, the sound of his regular breathing mingling strangely with the lap of the water which crept nearer and ever nearer to them up the cave. Many thoughtscame to Peggy that night, as she sat watching the light of the lantern flicker upon the rough walls. Father's reproachful face seemed to rise up out of the darkness, asking 'Where is Bobby? What have you done with my little boy?' Good resolutions made, and alas! too often forgotten, crowded in now upon her remembrance, and as she listened to the roar of the river, she thought how strange it would seem that they two, so full of life, might in a few hours be floating very still and silent upon that flowing stream, with the world only a memory behind them. But Peggy had been too much with the Rector to have any fear of death. He, she knew, viewed this life as merely the stepping-stone to a fuller and richer life beyond, and the body as but the worthless husk of the soul, so with a dreamy feeling that somehow Mr. Howell had set the gate of the next world ajar, and allowed some of the glory to steal out and comfort her, the child closed her tired eyes, and slept as quietly as if she had been safe in her bed at home, and the storm and the rushing water nothing but a vision of the night.
She woke with the sound of little lapping waves, to find that the water had risen higher, and now formed a deep pool on the floor of the cave, reaching almost to their feet. The candle had burnt low in the lantern, and even as she looked it gave a last flicker, and guttered out, leaving her in utter darkness. With trembling fingers, Peggy felt in her pocket for the remaining piece of candle and the box of matches. She tried to strike a light, but the match was damp, and fizzled away without igniting. A second and a third met with the same fate, and Peggy was in a panic of despair, until she remembered that Father had once told her to rub damp matches through her hair before striking them. This method proved a success,and she was able to relight the lantern, laying Bobby gently down on the floor, hoping he might not wake.
But the movement disturbed him, and he sprang to his feet, calling: 'Father, is that you? We're here, in the cave!'
'It's not Father yet, dear; only me lighting the lantern again.'
'I was dreaming that it was morning,' said Bobby, rubbing his eyes, 'and that Father had come to fetch us away in a boat.'
'I think it will be morning soon,' said Peggy. 'We seem to have slept for a long time. Bobby, dear, the water is rising so fast that I don't think we shall be able to stay here much longer, but I have a plan which I think we might perhaps carry out. Joe told me that people say the cave was really only the entrance to a secret passage which runs to the Abbey, and in the old days the smugglers used to carry their goods up there, and hide them away amongst the ruins. We must try and cross by that plank, and see if there is really any possible opening, except by the river.'
Anything seemed better than sitting still in the darkness watching the growing water, so the children went up the cave again to where the chasm lay yawning across their path.
'We mustn't try to walk over it,' said Peggy, as she doubtfully examined the slippery, shaky plank. 'I shall crawl over first with the lantern, and then I'll hold the light for you, and you must follow in the same way.'
It felt a very insecure bridge to poor Peggy, as she crept over on her hands and knees, trying not to look down into the dark gulf below, so frail and insecure that she shuddered for Bobby, who seemed so unnerved that she scarcely dared allow him to make the trial.
'Wait a moment!' she cried. 'Don't start just yet!'
And hurriedly taking off her pinafore, she tore it into strips, and knotting them together in a kind of rope, threw one end of it across to him.
'Now tie that firmly to your arm before you set off, and then, if you fall, I think I might be able to drag you up again.'
But luckily Peggy's childish strength was not put to the test, for Bobby accomplished the crossing in safety, and scrambled over the rocks which rose at the other side. Holding up the lantern, the children found they were in what seemed to be the entrance of a rough kind of passage. That it was not altogether of natural origin was evident from the traces of built-up stones, while here and there the walls showed the marks of the pick. The air was stale and damp and difficult to breathe, and the candle burnt so badly that several times Peggy feared it was going out altogether. They went stumbling along over the irregular floor, wondering whether their way was taking them to safety, or only into the bowels of the earth.
On and on the passage led them, sometimes through places so narrow they could scarcely scramble through, or so low that, small as they were, they were obliged to stoop; now up hill, now down, round many a sharp curve, till it ended suddenly in a small cavern about ten feet square.
Peggy lifted up the lantern high over her head, and looked anxiously round. Apparently they were in nothing but a blind alley, for there seemed no possible way out, except the path by which they had come. The poor children stared at each other with hopeless horror.
'We shall have to go back, and chance the river going down when it's light,' faltered Peggy.
"BOBBY ACCOMPLISHED THE CROSSING IN SAFETY."
'Oh, no, no! We can't go back over that hateful plank again and sit watching the water come up! I would rather be drowned here than there! Oh, Father, Father! do come and find us!' And Bobby sat down upon the ground with such a wail of despair that Peggy at last lost her self-control and found herself joining in his sobs.
But she stopped suddenly, and laying a restraining hand on his shoulder, put up her finger for silence, for it seemed to her that from the region somewhere over their heads she had heard a distant shout.
'Call again, Bobby, like you did before!' And both together the children joined their voices in a wild shriek of 'Father!'
This time there was an unmistakable shout of reply, and after what seemed to them a long interval of calling they could hear Father's voice from above quite plainly saying, 'Where are you?'
'In a cave down below!' cried Peggy, trying to make her voice carry in the hollow atmosphere.
Now that help was near she was her brisk, capable self again, and, seizing the lantern, searched round every foot of the cavern till she discovered what seemed to be the beginning of a little staircase, long since blocked by earth and stones.
'Here, Father! Dig for us here!' she called, and taking up a stone, began to tap like she had heard of imprisoned miners doing in the coal-pits.
There was silence for a few minutes, and then the children began to hear the welcome sound of a pickaxe, and Father's voice every now and then, shouting a word of encouragement to them. At length there was a rumbling noise in the roof above, some loose stones and earth fell, and Father called loudly:
'Stand back! Keep out of the way!'
Peggy clutched Bobby, and retreated into the passage, while a shower of stones and soil came pouring down into the cave, till a great rent was made in the roof, and Father dropped through the hole like Santa Claus down the chimney, only no saint was ever so welcome, even at Christmas-time.
It did not take very long for the children to be hauled up by Joe at the top, and they found themselves standing among the Abbey ruins in the early gray of the dawn, with Aunt Helen rushing to catch them in her arms, and Lilian hugging them and sobbing over them by turns, while Nancy, her face all blotched and swollen with crying, kept hovering round to put in a kiss whenever the others gave her a chance, and even old David cleared his throat hard, and 'blessed the Lord they were safe.'
Very little was said until the children had been warmed and fed and comforted by the dining-room fire, and then Mr. Vaughan would only allow the briefest account of their adventures before they were put to bed to sleep off the effects of their night of exposure. Nancy prophesied quinsy and pleurisy and rheumatic fever, but the Vaughans were a hardy race, and not even a cold resulted, in spite of her gloomy prognostications.
Peggy's quiet talk with Father next day was so entirely between themselves that I shall not repeat it; but it is often incidents, and not years, which help us to grow up, and somehow afterwards she always found herself dating events from that night in the cave, and all the part 'when I was little' came before, and the older and more sensible part seemed to follow afterwards.
'Thou wert working late, thou busy, busy bee!After the fall of the cistus flower,When the primrose-tree blossom was ready to burst,I heard thee last, as I saw thee first;In the silence of the evening hourI heard thee, thou busy, busy bee.'
'Thou wert working late, thou busy, busy bee!After the fall of the cistus flower,When the primrose-tree blossom was ready to burst,I heard thee last, as I saw thee first;In the silence of the evening hourI heard thee, thou busy, busy bee.'
'Thou wert working late, thou busy, busy bee!After the fall of the cistus flower,When the primrose-tree blossom was ready to burst,I heard thee last, as I saw thee first;In the silence of the evening hourI heard thee, thou busy, busy bee.'
AuntHelen was married in September, with the Rector to read the service, and Father to give her away, and Lilian and Peggy for bridesmaids, while the Sunday-school children strewed the path from the church-door with flowers, and Bobby flung rice and old shoes after the carriage, and all the village people came to watch, and say how sweet and pretty she looked, and to wish health and happiness to 'Mrs. John Neville.'
Things felt very flat when the excitement was all over and the last of the guests had left the Abbey, and the children found themselves wishing that life could be a perpetual round of bouquets and favours and wedding-cake, not forgetting presents to the bridesmaids, for Lilian and Peggy were the proud possessors of charming gold lockets set with turquoises, with portraits of Aunt Helen inside them, 'the gifts of the bridegroom,' as the local paper described them, while a silver watch and chain consoled Bobby for nottaking a more prominent part in the ceremony, and made him declare that his new uncle was 'a brick, and no mistake.'
After so much dissipation, it was quite hard to settle down to plain prose again; but school had already re-opened, and the children had stolen an extra week of holidays to join in the festivities, so it was high time they were setting to work once more. It seemed strange to start off every morning without Lilian, who only went into Warford once a week now for music-lessons, and Mr. Vaughan had occasional qualms as to the safety of allowing such youthful Jehus to drive about the country unattended; but the little yellow pony-trap was so well known on the road that it would have been rather difficult for anything to happen to the children. People knew the time of their passing, and looked out for them daily; kindly women would come to cottage doorways to nod and smile; the inn-keeper at the Halfway Arms set his clock by their arrival; they had struck up quite a friendship with the postman, two milkmen, and the driver of a fish-cart, while the old man who broke stones by the roadside always nodded and gave them 'Good-morning,' and fired a facetious remark or two after them, which the children imagined he must relieve the monotony of his work by composing during the intervals of their coming and going.
Left alone, Lilian tried to settle down in dead earnest to battle with her task of housekeeping. It was a heavy burden for such young shoulders, for in a farmhouse there is always a great deal of extra work to be done. Pigs, poultry, and young animals had to be fed, and the eggs gathered in daily; the dairy claimed constant attention, for the pans must be scalded and the pails polished bright, and though Joe did the milking and churning, it was Lilian's business to superintend the making up of the butter, and to weigh each pound with her own hands and print it with the Abbey stamp.
Nancy, too, proved somewhat of a trial, for though a hard-working and most kind-hearted girl, she had not been gifted by Providence with either brains or a memory, and was capable of making the most astonishing mistakes, which she invariably justified by declaring she was sure she had done it so 'in Miss Vaughan's time.'
'But, Nancy,' said poor, bewildered Lilian, 'I'm sure Aunt Helen never told you to rub up the silver with paraffin and brickdust. You're scratching it horribly. There's a packet of proper pink powder stuff to do it with somewhere.'
'There's naught like oil and brickdust for putting a polish on metals,' observed Nancy, complacently scouring away at Bobby's christening mug. 'It beats all they rubbish that the pedlars brings round in boxes, and tries hard to persuade you to buy, so it do for sure!'
'I have no doubt about it's being very good for fenders and fire-irons, and things of that sort, but not for the best teapot. Don't you think it would be better, Nancy, if I were to clean the silver on Friday mornings, and you could get on with your kitchen?'
'As you wish, Miss Lilian,' said Nancy, relinquishing the polishing-leather with no great sorrow. 'Miss Vaughan, she always did it her own self, too. Was you going to do anything with that stock that has been in the larder since Monday?'
'Oh, Nancy, I had forgotten all about it!' cried Lilian, much conscience-stricken at the reminder. 'And I had intended to make it into soup. Do go and fetch it, and see if it is still good.'
But the stock, alas! had accumulated a skim of green mould on the surface, and generally betrayed such symptoms of distress that it was fit for nothing but the pig-trough; and when Lilian, warned by its awful example, visited her neglected shelves, she found so many forgotten scraps put away into odd corners that she straightway formed the excellent resolution of reviewing the larder daily after breakfast, having an uneasy sensation that it was one of the golden rules which Aunt Helen had particularly impressed upon her, but which, like many others, had slidden into the background of her remembrance.
It was certainly one thing to housekeep with Aunt Helen at her elbow to advise, and quite another to puzzle it out with only her memory and the cookery-book for assistance. The quantities required for a family of five persons was a subject which took her some time to master.
'There's the butcher's boy at the back-door, miss,' observed Nancy one morning, a few days after the wedding, putting her head into the Rose Parlour, and interrupting the 'Bridal March' from 'Lohengrin' which Lilian was trying over on the piano. 'He's left his cart at the bottom of the drive, but he'll fetch up anything you want.'
The butcher only came round weekly at Gorswen, so Lilian abandoned her music and sallied forth to give her first order.
'We're quite tired of great sirloins of beef and legs of mutton,' she announced. 'Haven't you anything else this morning?'
'Nice bit of pork, mum,' suggested the man—'fillet of veal.'
'I'm sure the veal would be a change; we haven't had any for a long time.'
'Very good, mum. How much may we send you?'
'About a pound and a half, I should think,' said Lilian, knitting her brows and trying in vain to remember the extent of Aunt Helen's weekly order. 'Or suppose we say two pounds. I expect that would be right.'
The meat arrived in due course, looking such a very small amount when Nancy placed it on the kitchen-table that Lilian exclaimed in horror:
'Why, Nancy, that will never last us for a week! It looks hardly enough for one dinner!'
Nancy shook her head doubtfully, but did not offer any assistance in the dilemma.
'Perhaps if we boiled it, it might swell out a little, and be enough for twice, at any rate. I think you had better get a pan and put it on at once. I believe things have to boil for a long time before they're tender.'
Nancy obeyed without question.
'I suppose you can keep your eye on it, Miss Lilian?' she observed. 'I shall be busy upstairs in the bedrooms this morning.'
And she departed with broom and dustpan, leaving her young mistress in charge of the kitchen.
Lilian really did mean to look after that meat. She got it boiling briskly, and filled up the pan several times with water; then, giving it a final replenishing, she ran off to practise a few scales and exercises.
She was quite sure she had not been absent more than ten minutes, but when she returned to the kitchen she was greeted by a strong smell of burning, and rushing to her pan, found that every drop of water had boiled out, and the veal was frizzling at the bottom into a hard black mass. To take it off was her first act, and to call Nancy to the rescue her second.
'Well, it do be a pity, Miss Lilian,' said that sympathizing damsel. 'But there, don't take on so! We can cut off that black part at the bottom, and put the rest down with some vegetables. Happen it'll turn out all right after all. There'll be just time afore dinner,' chopping away as she spoke in a vigorous onslaught on the carrots and onions.
It was Saturday, so the children were at home, but even their healthy appetites were not equal to the very untempting dish which was set before them, for the unfortunate veal had boiled away to ribbons, and all the goodness had gone into the lost gravy, while the pulpy remains tasted so hopelessly burnt as to be perfectly uneatable.
'The vegetables are quite nice, at any rate,' began Father cheerfully; then seeing Lilian's swimming eyes: 'Never mind, little woman; experience is always dearly bought, and a vegetarian dinner won't hurt us for once in a way. We must make out with home produce until the butcher comes again. There's a young cockerel that will do for Sunday, and perhaps I can shoot you a rabbit; and we can always fall back upon eggs and bacon, at any rate, if there is nothing else to be had. Cheer up! I don't expect to find a full-fledged housekeeper in five minutes!'
After this Lilian determined to provide more generously, and astonished the grocer by ordering three pounds of cayenne pepper, and a like quantity of mace (embarrassing possessions which lingered in the spice-cupboard for years before they were eventually finished), and generally running the household on so liberal a scale that Father had to interfere and preach economy. Such very Spartan fare was the result of his lecture that he wisely fixed her a weekly allowance, and left her to manage as best she could upon it, andthis plan answered far better, for she had a natural aptitude for arithmetic, and soon learned to make the various items fall into their proper places, balancing her little account-book in quite a professional manner.
About this time, too, Lilian took to poring over the 'Ladies' Column' in the newspaper, and trying the various recipes which were given therein. Some of them were very successful, and—especially the cakes—were much appreciated by the children, though others did not turn out quite what she had expected, in which case it is only charitable to suppose the oven was at fault.
'There's a splendid one here, Nancy,' she announced one day, 'under the heading of "What to do with your Cold Mutton." You mince it all up with herbs, and make it into a kind of pasty, and it sounds most delicious. It says, "First take a couple of onions." By-the-by, did Joe bring in any onions this morning? Those in the basket are all finished.'
'No, Miss; Joe, he's never been near to-day, though there's master's shooting-boots waiting for him to clean.'
'Oh, then do run down, Nancy, please, and ask him to dig up a few, while I put the meat through the mincing-machine. You'll very likely find him in the orchard or the stackyard.'
Nancy soon returned flushed and out of breath, with a full apron.
'I couldn't find Joe nowheres,' she panted. 'But he'd put these down in the harness-room, so I just took them. Shall I chop them up for you now?'
'Please do. But oh, Nancy, stop! Let me look! These are not onions; they're the gladiolus bulbs that David has just taken up from the garden! What amercy you did not put them into the pasty! We might all have been poisoned!'
'Lor!' said Nancy, much abashed, 'I made so sure they was onions I never thought to look at 'em. But if it's only a couple you're needing, miss, there are two or three left in the larder that would do. Was it anything else you'll be wanting?'
'It says, "Take a little dried thyme, sage and sweet marjoram,"' read Lilian, with her finger on the recipe, '"together with a few pieces of lemon-peel." I wonder what it calls "a little." I haven't the slightest idea, but I suppose we must put plenty in to make it a nice flavour, or it won't taste of anything.'
So, putting a very liberal interpretation on the words, she cut up a goodly supply of those herbs, and mixed them in with the meat.
The pasty came out of the oven baked to a turn, and smelling delicious, and Lilian felt quite a thrill of satisfaction as it was placed on the table, and Father began to cut it. But the 'Ladies' Column' should have been a little more explicit as to the quantity of flavouring, for, when it came to a matter of eating, the herbs so entirely predominated that the mutton was utterly lost, and, as she had unfortunately cut up the stalks as well as the leaves, the mixture bore a horrible resemblance to chopped hay. It was distinctly galling, but, still, she learned by her mistakes; for practice gives the best training, and there is no such invaluableteacheras hard experience.
Well-meaning friends were kind in their offers of help and advice, but, as Lilian said:
'You can't run down in the middle of mixing a pudding to ask Miss Forster how much sugar to put into it, or send for the Rector's housekeeper to tell you when the custard is thick enough. Mrs. Davenport told me to write her a post-card if I got into a fix, and she would come over and set me straight; but I don't think I should quite like that, and I'm sure Nancy wouldn't.'
Father did not encourage her to seek outside help, thinking it better that the Abbey should manage its own affairs, even at the cost of a little inconvenience, and kindly shut his eyes to many small deficiencies, knowing that time was the best remedy, and that old heads do not naturally grow on young shoulders.
At first the cares of her new position were a terrible burden on the poor child's mind, for she was, if anything, too conscientious, and almost morbidly anxious to do right and fill the place which Aunt Helen had left so empty. She would wake at four o'clock in the morning, and not dare to close her eyes again, for fear Nancy should oversleep herself, and the children be late for school. She would visit the dairy ten times a day to see that the thunder had not turned the milk, nor the cat crept in through the window. She counted and recounted the linen and the silver, and sat worrying over her account-books at night till Father threatened to burn them.
I think her greatest trial, however, was on the few occasions when Mr. Vaughan was obliged to stay away for the night, and leave her responsible for the safe keeping of the whole establishment. She would go round with Nancy and a candle, carefully locking all the doors and securing the shutters, peering fearfully into cupboards and starting at her own shadow on the wall; and, having finally retreated to her bedroom, would barricade the door with a tin box, and place the poker handy on a chair by her bedside. But in spite of these precautions, the nights were misery all the same. Sleep refused to come, and she lay awakehour after hour, imagining every sound to be a burglar breaking into the premises, and wondering how Peggy could slumber so peacefully in the other little white bed. It is amazing, when the house is perfectly quiet, how many creaks and peculiar noises make themselves heard which we never think of noticing in the daytime. The wind blowing the ivy about would sound like a hand tapping upon the pane, the cattle trampling in the fields suggested footsteps under the window, and a mouse behind the wainscot would raise her to such a pitch of panic that she would often be obliged to get up and light the candle to reassure herself, and when she at last fell asleep it was generally with her fingers stuffed in her ears, and her head buried under the bedclothes, an uncomfortable proceeding, resulting in such white cheeks and heavy eyes that Father, with some difficulty finding out the cause of the trouble, never left in future without arranging for old David to sleep in the house during his absence.
I think, during those early struggles, her correspondence with Aunt Helen was her greatest help and comfort, for to that dearest of friends she could unburden all her worries and perplexities, and be sure of sympathy.
'It is so hard to do exactly right,' wrote Lilian—'to be generous without being extravagant, and economical without being stingy. Father says we must be careful, and spend as little as we can, but things to eat seem to cost such a terrible amount all the same. I wish we could live on porridge and potatoes, like the Irish do! Life would be far simpler.
'About going on with my education. You ask if I am keeping up my French and German, but there really seems no time. The two hours' practising for Herr Frankenburg is as much as I can possibly get in.I am busy with Nancy all morning, the music takes the best part of the afternoon, then the children come home, and after tea I must see that they learn their lessons and go to bed, and Father likes someone to talk to in the evenings. It is so dull for him if I am buried in a German exercise when he wants to tell me about the farm. I try to attack a few "improving" books when I can manage it, and I have begun to read Carlyle's "French Revolution" to Father in the evenings, but I am sorry to say it generally sends him to sleep. He is so tired with the threshing just now, poor darling! and, as he said one night: "You see, my dear, I have so many troubles of my own at present that the trials of the French peasantry of a hundred years ago seem an affair of quite minor importance."'
Aunt Helen's letter back was just like a little piece of her dear self.
'I can sympathize thoroughly with all your worries,' it ran, 'for I, too, was left motherless at sixteen, to manage as best I could. Of course, keep up our family standard of cleanliness and order as much as you possibly can, but you will find it a mistake to be too particular and exacting. Rather, let the children run in sometimes with dirty boots than check their confidence by continual fault-finding. I am sorry that the education must needs be somewhat neglected, but after all the other is more important. There are plenty of "blue" Girton girls in the world who do not seem to me to be of much use to anyone except themselves, while as the "little mother" of your home you are filling a place that is the sphere of every true woman. And because you have no time for reading is not any reason why your thinking powers need rust away. There is so much wisdom to be learnt from even the little ordinary incidents of life if one knows how toappreciate them. People say one is apt to grow narrow with living in the country, but I have generally found the people who do so are those who have no interests outside the round of society pleasures or social gossip, and to my mind they would be narrow anywhere. When you know a little about botany and natural history, all the common things on the farm have something to teach you. The quaint sayings of the villagers are often as full of humour as those Scotch books over which people rave so much, and many of their stories are such interesting survivals of ancient folklore that I have often longed to collect them in writing. While surely, to a thoughtful mind, the constant sight of so much loveliness around tends to have a more ennobling effect than an environment of bricks and mortar and smoky chimneys, whatever the Londoners may say.
'Do your household duties thoroughly, but don't let them absorb you entirely, for Father does not want you to be a mere domestic drudge, with no ideas beyond the potato-pan and the pepper-pot. When I was a young girl I often tilted up a volume of Tennyson and read snatches while I compounded a pudding, and found it had a wonderfully inspiring effect, and did not spoil the cooking either, for my "Tennyson" puddings generally turned out a great success.
'You will find the housekeeping comes easier as you grow older, and in the meantime remember you are not only educating yourself, but bringing up the younger ones, who look to you now instead of to me for example, and who will be far more influenced by what you do and what you are than by any amount of good advice you may bestow upon them. It is hard to write all this from a distance of so many thousand miles, when I am longing to sit over thefire in the Rose Parlour, and have a good chat with you, like we used to do sometimes when the children had gone to bed.
'I am afraid there seems very little festivity or party-going for you, dear child, and I should have been glad to hear you had been asked out rather more; but, after all, much society often means much rivalry and heartburning. I have tried both, and find there is more real pleasure to be had from the intellectual than from the social side of life, for while the latter is apt to fail us just when we most require it, the former is "warranted to wear well and improve with keeping," and, so far from being affected by the changes and chances of this world, sticks by us when health and wealth and even friends can fall away.'