CHAPTERVII.
Whenvisitors went for the first time to Usk, and their hostesses wished to imbue them with a sense of the beauties of the place, they generally said, ‘Oh, let us drive to Panty-cuckoo Farm! You must not leave Usk without seeing Panty-cuckoo Farm! The sweetest, most picturesque old place you ever set eyes on; quite a leaf out of the past ages. Sir Archibald Bowmant says it dates from the fourteenth century. And Mrs Llewellyn is such a quaint old woman. You don’t meet with such people in her class now-a-days. We always have our eggs and butter and pork from her, and she will give us a lovely cup of tea, with the best of cream. You must come!’
And the visitors usually agreed that their hostess’s description of the farm and its inhabitants had not been exaggerated, and came back delighted with what they had seen. They drove for some way out of the town of Usk, along an undulating road, almost overshadowed by the meeting branches of lofty elm and oak trees, and fringed by hedges, fragrant at this time of year with meadowsweet and climbing travellers’ joy and wild roses. A sudden curve in the road brought them to a wide, white gate, which led by a most precipitous pathway to the farmhouse. On either side this pathway were placed large, whitewashed blocks of stone, to enable the wheels of cart or carriage to keep from rolling into the little trench by which it was bordered. On one side the trench or ditch was a large orchard stretching away beyond where the eye could reach, and well stocked with apple, and pear, and cherry trees. Beneath their shade were numerous coops of hens, with their broods of little white chickens scattered round them like fallen blossoms of May; and flying like the wind at their mother’s call, as the black porkers, for which Farmer Llewellyn was famous, came grunting behind each other, eating the windfalls, and turning the refuse over with their ringed snouts. Opposite to the orchard was a plot of grass, which ran along the side of the house, and was decorated by garden beds, filled with carnations, lilies, mignonette, geraniums, and such common sweet-smelling flowers. This part of the house had been built subsequently to the original portion, and had a side entrance of its own beneath a little porch covered with honeysuckle and clematis. It consisted of only two rooms, and as the farmer’s family had never consisted of more than his two daughters, Mrs Llewellyn had been in the habit of letting these rooms to casual visitors to Usk who required a lodging for a few nights. Especially had they been at the service of Sir Archibald Bowmant during the shooting season, as he often had more bachelors staying at Usk Hall than he could accommodate, and knew he could trust their comfort with safety to his old tenant, Mrs Llewellyn. Sir Archibald’s woods skirted the road opposite Panty-cuckoo Farm, so that his guests had only to cross the park to gain their nightly lodgings, and so much trust had Mrs Llewellyn in her landlord’s visitors, that when her rooms were occupied she let the young gentlemen come and go as they liked, without holding any inquisitorial espionage over their proceedings. But this wing of the house had nothing to do with the farm itself; visitors to the Llewellyns drove straight down the precipitous drive till they turned round at the foot to face the front of the farm, which consisted of a low, rambling building, of dark red brick, with a thatched roof. Before it was a prim, old-fashioned strip of ground, guarded by a row of eight box trees, cut in the shape of peacocks. On the walls of the house were a magnificent magnolia, and some plants of the crimson pyrus japonica, which gave it a wonderfully warm appearance. As soon as carriage wheels were heard, Mrs Llewellyn usually opened the door and came down the bricked path to welcome her visitors. She would never hear of their leaving before they had partaken of her tea and cream. The parlour was entered immediately from the front door, and was wainscotted half-way to the ceiling with rich, dark oak, of which the ceiling itself was formed, divided into squares, with a plain but different device carved in each. The windows of this room were lattice-paned, and contained window-seats in the shape of oak settles, which opened like boxes to store the house linen. The fireplace was a mass of carving, without any mantelpiece, but a wide range below for logs, and iron dogs on either side to support them. Mrs Llewellyn much prided herself on this parlour. She knew the value and beauty of it as much as anybody, though she sometimes grumbled at its inconveniences, and said she would exchange it any day for a modern-built house. It opened into a wide, bricked passage, or ante-room, where the farmer hung his coats, and a table stood piled with the prayer-books of the family, ready to be distributed when church time came round again. Nell’s still lay amongst them. Her mother often sighed when she accidentally touched it; sometimes she had been seen to raise it furtively to her lips before she laid it down again. It was outside this ante-chamber that the two rooms had been added that were occasionally let as lodgings, and the door, which originally had opened from it to the garden, now led to them. Visitors passed through it to the dairy, where the shelves were piled with the year’s cheeses, and marble slabs held the mounds of fresh butter, waiting to be made into rolls or pats by the rosy-cheeked dairymaid, and the pans were standing covered with thick, rich, yellow cream, such as Mrs Llewellyn was famed for all the country side. This dairy led across a covered-in yard to the baking-house, and in the centre of the yard stood a well, centuries old, with an Elizabethan cross surmounting its quaint, arched roof. In fact, there was no end to the curiosities in Panty-cuckoo Farm, and ladies with purses full of money had tried over and over again to induce the farmer and his wife to part with some of their bits of blue china, and yellow lace, and old wood carving, that they might carry them back to adorn their drawing-rooms in Kensington or Westminster. But the Llewellyns were steadfast in their courteous refusals. No amount of coin would have made them sell the little relics that adorned their rooms, and had come down to them from unknown ancestors. They would as soon have sold their own flesh and blood. There was something about these people above the general run of farmers and their wives. Countrified they necessarily were, but not vulgar nor common, and even in the lowly position they occupied they managed to infuse so much dignity that even their superiors recognised it, and met it with respect. It was rather an important occasion with Mrs Llewellyn when we are first introduced to her, for her daughter Hetty was coming, with her husband and several of her new relations, to take tea at Panty-cuckoo Farm for the first time since her return from London, and her mother was eager to do her honour. Mrs Llewellyn had evidently been a very handsome woman in her youth, and as she moved about her rooms, clad in her gala dress of grey merino, with a white muslin kerchief pinned across her bosom, and a large cap covering her iron-grey hair, it was evident from whom poor Nell had inherited the beauty that had proved such a misfortune to her. Tall and upright, with a fresh colour in her face, and her hazel eyes beaming with expectation and pride in her table, Mrs Llewellyn looked quite a picture as she moved about her room and arranged the feast for her expected guests. The brown bread and fresh butter, the cream and new-laid eggs, the honeycomb and home-made preserves, the cut ham and water-cresses, made up a picture of beauty that any housewife might have been proud of; and Farmer Llewellyn chuckled with satisfaction as he sat in one of the window settles and watched the tempting display.
‘That’s right, wife!’ he exclaimed, ‘stuff them well. You’ll get more friends through their stomachs than you’ll ever do through their hearts.’
‘Oh, Griffith,’ she replied, ‘that’s a poor way of looking at it; not but what a good meal’s a good thing after all. But I shouldn’t like the Owens to go home and say they hadn’t had enough to eat. And it’s our Hetty’s first visit, too,’ and here Mrs Llewellyn heaved a deep sigh.
‘What’s up now?’ said her husband. ‘You can’t expect to keep your girls with you for ever, you know, Mary; and William Owen is as good a lad as ever stepped in shoe leather, and will keep our Hetty well. We might have gone further and fared worse for a husband for her.’
‘Oh, yes, I know that, father, and I’m quite satisfied. I like Will myself. He’s like a son to me. No, I wasn’t thinking of Hetty at all, but of our Nell. I’ve been thinking of her a deal lately. I don’t seem as if I could get her out of my mind. It seems so hard that Hetty should see her and not I. Five years is a long time not to set eyes on one’s own child. Sometimes the longing for a sight of her is so bad, I feel as if I must go up to London, if I walk every step of the way.’
‘Oh, that’s the way the crow flies,’ chuckled the farmer. ‘You’re jealous of your daughter, are you? You’ll be worrying me to take you a second honeymoon tour next.Youwant to see London town, now.’
‘Oh, Grif, how I wish I could, not for the sake of the sights, you know. The only sight I want is that of my girl. If I had ever thought that servants were such slaves up there, I’d have cut her legs off before she should have left Usk. My pretty Nell! If she goes and marries away from me, where, perhaps, I may never have a glimpse of her, or her little ones, it would drive me crazy.’
‘Come now, mistress!’ exclaimed the farmer in his old-fashioned way, ‘you must just put off your fit of the mopes for a bit, for here are all your guests coming down the dell in their wedding bravery. Here’s Hetty, blooming like a rose, and trying to look as if nobody had ever been married in the world before her. How are you, my little bride, and how are you, William, my lad? Mind the step, Mrs Owen, ma’am, for it’s broken at the edge. (You mind me to have that set right, Mary!) Well, farmer, you look famous, and so does Hugh here. I went to hear you spouting last Sunday night, lad, and you have the gift of the gab and no mistake. You made my wife, here, cry. You hit so neatly on her favourite sins.’
‘Oh, no, Hugh, you won’t believe that, I hope,’ cried Mrs Llewellyn, blushing like one of her daughters. ‘Father’s only chaffing you. It was looking at you and thinking of my Nell that made me cry. The sight of you brings back the time so plain, when you and she used to play and quarrel all day long. You were main sweet on her then, and used to call her your little wife. Ay, but how glad I should be if she had stayed at home like my Hetty and married in Usk. My heart is very sore sometimes, when I think of her so far away and I not near her, in sickness or trouble. Sometimes I fancy I’ll never set eyes on her again.’
‘Oh, mother, you mustn’t say that,’ interposed Hetty, ‘for Nell promised Will and me that as soon as ever she got a holiday she should come back to see us all at Usk. But Lord Ilfracombe has gone abroad and left her in charge of everything, so she can’t possibly leave the house just yet.’
‘In charge of everything? Doesn’t that seem strange?’ said the mother, with a proud smile, ‘My careless Nell! Lord Ilfracombe must think a deal of her to trust her like that.’
‘Oh, hedoesthink a deal of her, mother. Anyone could see that. He must give her heaps and heaps of money. You should have seen how she was dressed. Oh, lovely! And her hair was done just like a lady’s, and when we had tea with her, the footman waited on us as if we had been the owners of the house, and he brought the tea up on a beautiful silver tray and we sat in the best room, and it was like failyland, wasn’t it, Will?’
‘I hope Nell did not do anything she ought not,’ remarked the prudent mother. ‘I hope she won’t get into a scrape for this.’
‘Just what I said,’ laughed Hetty; ‘but Nell said Lord Ilfracombe is so good-natured that if he came back, sudden-like, he’d only smile and say,—“That’s right, go on and enjoy yourselves.†And a gentleman who came and spoke to us when we were at the play, and sent us the most beautiful ices, talked as if Lord Ilfracombe thought all the world of our Nell; didn’t he, Will?’
‘Ay, that’s so,’ acquiesced Will.
The farmer and his wife, all unconscious of wrong, rather bridled at this information, but Hugh Owen looked grave and his dark eyes seemed to question eagerly for more. This last was rather a remarkable young man, both outwardly and inwardly. From a child he had been a student, and now might almost have been termed a scholar, though a self-taught one. His face was so earnest and introspective in its expression, that it made one forget that his features were not strictly handsome. His sallow complexion, dark grey eyes, large nose, and thin-lipped mouth, were far less attractive than his younger brother’s fair skin and Saxon characteristics, but no one looked twice at William Owen, while few could forget Hugh. His tall, gaunt frame, nervous hands, and straight hair, all told the same tale, of a man who had used his intellect more than his muscle, and cared for his brains before his body. From a child Hugh Owen had felt the power within him, and had delighted to mount a rostrum of his own erection, and hold forth to his playmates on any subject which occupied his mind at the moment. As he grew into a lad, he scorned farm work and only wanted to be left alone with his books and studies, until his father, not knowing what to make of him, and fearing he was ‘daft,’ consulted the minister about him. This minister was a Wesleyan, an earnest, devout man, though rather unlearned, who saw in young Owen’s proclivities only a ‘call’ to the ministry, and persuaded his proud parents to send him to school at Newport, whence, after several years of study, he returned to Usk and was elected to take part in the services of the dissenting chapel. But, added to his ministerial duties, Hugh Owen had taken to preaching at the corners of the bye-roads and on the common, or wherever he could collect an audience or obtain a hearing. Some people said he was mad, others, that he was a saint. His parents and friends thought the latter, but he was only a young enthusiast, whose whole heart and soul and mind were filled with one idea, with which he panted to imbue the whole world. As Hetty chattered about Nell, and what she had done and said in London, Hugh’s eyes became strained and anxious, and his attention was wholly enchained.
‘I never heard before,’ he said presently, ‘of maid-servants drinking their tea off silver trays and sitting in the best rooms.’
‘That’s only because you don’t know anything of London life,’ cried Hetty, tossing her little head. ‘Nell says it’s quite different from the country, and anyone can see so for themselves. Why, the gentleman who met us at the play (I forget his name) spoke to our Nell just as if she was a lady, and took off his hat when we drove away in the cab, as if we were duchesses. Oh, it was lovely; I wish we lived in London always.’
‘You’ve had quite enough of town life for awhile, my lass,’ observed her father. ‘Your head would be turned with much more. You’ll be expecting mother to give you your tea on a silver tray next.’
‘Oh, never mind the tray!’ exclaimed Mrs Llewellyn impatiently. ‘If it had been of gold, it couldn’t have been too good for our Nell. But tell me how she looked, Hetty. Is she quite well and bonny? Does she seem happy in this grand place? Does she have plenty to eat, or did you see any signs of fretting after the old home in my girl? for if so, I’ll have her back, ay, if she was housekeeper to twenty lords, or the Prince of Wales himself; God bless him.’
‘Oh, no, mother, don’t you worry. Nell is as happy as happy can be. I’m sure of that. Of course she’d like to come home for a bit. I could see the tears in her eyes when she spoke of you and father—’
‘God bless my lass,’ cried her mother, interrupting her. ‘When you say that, I feel as if I couldn’t rest another night without she came home. What a pretty thing she was at sixteen—you remember her, Hugh, with her bright hair streaming down her back, and her eyes dancing with fun and mischief. The prettiest lass in all Usk, or for miles around. Everybody said so. Didn’t they, Hugh?’
‘Yes, Mrs Llewellyn, you are right; they did so,’ replied Hugh.
‘A bit wild and wilful-like, but no harm in her,’ continued the mother. ‘And might have married well if she had stayed here. Well, I miss her sorely, and always have done so, and shall all the more now that Hetty’s gone and got married. I’ve never seen the girl that was a patch on my Nell.’
‘Now, mother, suppose you stop your bemoanings and pass round the griddle cakes,’ interposed the farmer. ‘I don’t call it much of a compliment to William and Hetty here, for you to amuse us with praises of our Nell. You heard what Het says, that she means to come to Usk the first holiday she gets, and what do you want more? She might have married and gone out to America, and then you’d have had to do without her altogether.’
‘God forbid,’ said his wife, as she busied herself with looking after her guests.
They were soon started on another subject. Farmer Owen had had an uncommonly heavy crop of hay that year, and as most husbandmen had lost theirs through the drought, his good luck, and the way he had secured it, formed a grand subject of conversation between him and Mr Llewellyn. The little bride had not half exhausted her tales of the wonders she had been introduced to in London, and they were all in full chatter, asking questions and answering them, when Hugh Owen said suddenly,—
‘Who’s this coming down the glen?’
All eyes were instantly directed towards the steep hill which led to the farmhouse, and down which a tall female figure was walking with rather slow footsteps.
‘It’s a lady,’ quoth Mrs Llewellyn, wonderingly. ‘Whoever can she be? It’s a stranger. I’ve never seen her in Usk before.’
The woman was dressed very plainly, but she seemed to wear her clothes differently from the common herd. She raised her head every now and then, expectantly, and yet timidly, and during one of these movements Hetty caught sight of her face.
‘Mother,’ she screamed, as she jumped up from her seat, ‘it’s our Nell!’
‘Nell!’ echoed her mother. ‘Never!’
But Hetty had already left the house, and, meeting the advancing figure, had thrown both her arms around it.
‘Nell! Nell!’ she cried. ‘Oh, Nell, we were just talking of you. What joy it is to welcome you home.’
She seized her two hands and dragged her along till she stood in the midst of the astonished group.
‘Mother, can’t you see? It is our Nell. She has got her holiday at last, and has come to spend it with us.’
‘Yes, at last!’ exclaimed Nell, as she fell into her mother’s opened arms. ‘Mother, I’ve come home, and I never mean to leave you again.’
At first, in their delight and surprise at her unexpected appearance, they could do nothing but kiss her and gaze at her; but when their excitement had somewhat subsided, all their anxiety was to hear why Nell had not given them warning of her return, and when she was going back to her situation again.
‘Going back,’ she echoed, with a shrill laugh; ‘I’mnevergoing back at all, mother. I’m going to live with you now, and help you as Hetty used to do. I shall never go back unless you tell me you don’t want me.’
Her mother’s only answer was to cry over her, and say how much she had longed for her return, but Hetty was gazing at her sister with amazement. What had happened to her since they had parted in London? Nell was as pale as death; she almost looked thinner than when she had seen her last; her eyes were abnormally large, and there were dark lines under them. Above all, there was a harsh shrillness in her voice which she had not noticed before.
‘My darling lass,’ said Mrs Llewellyn, ‘if you wait till your father and I bid you go, you’ll stay here for ever. But have you been ailing, Nell? Hetty, here, said you were looking so well. But you don’t look so to me. London air can’t agree with you to leave your cheeks so white and your lips so pale. Are you sure you are quite well, my lass? If not, your mother will nurse you till you are. She hasn’t lost much of her good looks, has she, Hugh?’
‘Who’s that?’ said Nell, turning round. ‘What, my old sweetheart? How are you, Hugh? How are you Mrs Owen? I didn’t know mother had a tea-party, you see, or I would have come to-morrow instead of to-day.’
Then she suddenly burst into a wild fit of laughter.
‘Isn’t it funny to be sitting amongst you all again? I feel as if I had never left home. Ah, it’s a long time ago, isn’t it, mother? a long, weary while. But it’s over now, thank God, over for good and all. I mean to stay at dear Panty-cuckoo Farm for the rest of my life, and look after the dairy and the baking and the washing, and let dear mother sit down and rest. You’ll think I’ve forgotten all about it, mother, but you’ll find you’re mistaken. In two or three days, I shall have forgotten that I ever left Usk, and be as good a farm maid as ever.’
‘Oh, Nell, my girl, you know how glad I shall be to have your help, but what made you think of coming home to give it me? I’m fairly puzzled what put it in your mind. Hetty understood you weren’t likely to get leave for a long time to come.’
‘What put it in my mind?’ repeated Nell, with a repetition of her shrill laugh. ‘Why, Hetty to be sure. She drew such a pitiful picture of mother, left without a daughter to help in her dairy work, that I couldn’t resist the temptation to run home and give you all a surprise. Aren’t you glad to see me, father? Your bonnie girl, as you used to call me. I remember you were vexed enough when I decided to go out to service. You threatened to lock me up on bread and water.’
‘Glad to have you back, lass? Ay, more glad than I can say. But I confess you’ve taken us rather by surprise. What did your master say to your leaving him in such a hurry? Wasn’t he a bit put out? Hetty said he had left you in charge of the house.’
Nell flushed suddenly like a scarlet rose.
‘So he did, but he’s altered his plans, and isn’t coming home now for a long time. And so, as a servant isn’t a slave, I’ve given him warning. He told me in his last letter I could leave London when I liked, and I liked to do so now—now, at once. I couldn’t stay. I wanted my mother. I wanted Panty-cuckoo Farm. I wanted you all—and rest, rest!’
She uttered the last words almost like a sigh. As they escaped her lips she turned and caught Hugh Owen’s eyes fixed on her. Nell threw back her head defiantly, as though she dared him to guess at anything she thought or felt.
‘Rest,’ said Mrs Llewellyn sympathisingly, ‘of course you want rest, my poor child, and you shall have it here. They’ve worked you too hard in London. I was afraid of it when I heard what Hetty had to tell me about you. But you shall rest now, my bonnie lass, you shall rest now!’