IT was late in the day when the aunt and niece seated themselves in the train for Littlebourne. Mrs. Rowles counted up her money, and then counted up the time.
"It will be eight o'clock before we get home," she remarked; "it will be getting dark and near your bed-time."
"I don't care," said Juliet; "I don't want to go to bed."
"Oh, no; but I shall be tired and sleepy. Juliet, have you ever been in the country?"
"No."
"But you said you liked the Crystal Palace."
"No, I didn't," was Juliet's polite reply.
"I beg your pardon, my dear, I thought you did."
"I said," explained Juliet, slightly abashed by her aunt's courteous manner—"I said I wanted to go to the Crystal Palace. Father said once that he would take us on a bank holiday, but then wegot poor, and so he never kept his word. We always have been poor, we never had mutton-chops but only three times; and now we are poorer than we used to be, and we don't even get rice puddings."
"Well, I'll try and give you rice puddings, and suet ones too."
"Oh, I don't care," said the child relapsing into her usual manner; "I don't want your puddings."
The carriage soon filled with other passengers, and there came over Mrs. Rowles a slight sensation of shame when she saw how they glanced at Juliet in her patched frock and untidy hat. And the neat country-woman felt that to walk with this London child through the village of Littlebourne, where every creature, down to the cows and cats and dogs, all knew the lock-keeper's wife, would be a great trial of courage.
It was only now that Mrs. Rowles realized the condition of many of the working-class (so called, for harder work is done by heads than by hands) in the great city, who yet are not what is known as "poor." The Mitchell family had drifted away from the Rowles family. A letter now and then passed between them, but Rowles had held such a prejudice against Mitchell's employment that really no intercourse had taken place between the two families. Mrs. Rowles had been drawn, sheknew not how, but by some sort of instinct, to visit her brother-in-law this day; and she had further been impelled to offer Juliet a trip to the country. But now she almost regretted it.
Juliet sat opposite her aunt, looking out blankly at the houses as the train passed through the western suburbs. After a while she stood up at the window. Fields and trees were beginning to be more frequent than at first. Soon the houses became rare, and the fields continuous.
Juliet's lips were muttering something which Mrs. Rowles could not hear in the noise made by the train.
She leaned forward to the child. "What do you say?"
"Pretty churchyard!" said Juliet.
"Whatdo you say?"
"Pretty churchyard' pretty churchyard!"
"Whatever do you mean, my child!"
"I mean, this churchyard is bigger and prettier than the churchyards in London, where I used to play when I was little."
Mrs. Rowles's eyes filled with tears. She understood now that Juliet had only known trees and flowers by seeing them in the churchyards of London, disused for the dead, and turned into gardens—grim enough—for the living. And so to the child's mind green grass and waving boughs seemed to be always disused churchyards. Suchsad ignorance would seem impossible, if we did not know it to be afact.
"But, Juliet, these are fields. Grass grows in them for the cows and sheep to eat, and corn to make us bread, and flowers to make us happy and to make us good."
Juliet did not reply. She gazed out at the landscape through which they were passing, and which was growing every moment more soft and lovely as the sky grew mellower and the shadows longer. She almost doubted her aunt's words. And yet this would be a very big churchyard; and certainly there were cows and sheep in sight, and there were red and white and yellow flowers growing beside the line. So she said nothing, but thought that she would wait and find out things for herself.
At Littlebourne station Mrs. Rowles and Juliet alighted. The ticket-collector looked hard at Juliet, and the cabman outside the gate said, "Got a little un boarded out, Mrs. Rowles?"
Mrs. Rowles shook her head and walked on. She bethought herself of a means by which to avoid most of her neighbours' eyes. She would go round the field way, and not through the village. It was a much prettier walk, but rather longer.
"Are you tired, Juliet?" she asked kindly.
"Of course I am."
"Well, we shall soon be home now."
"It don't matter," said the child; "I'm 'most always tired."
They went through some pasture-fields where cows lay about quiet and happy, and through corn-fields where green wheat and barley rustled in the evening breeze.
"You're right," muttered Juliet; "it ain't all churchyard, 'cause they don't have cows and green flowers in churchyards."
"Do you like the country, my dear?"
"I don't know yet. I ain't seen any shops, nor any mutton-chops."
"Well, you shall see them all by and by. Now we are going through a farmyard, where you will see cocks and hens, and perhaps some little pigs."
But before they had time to look for either pigs or poultry they heard a succession of alternate fierce growls and short shrieks, and both Mrs. Rowles and Juliet stopped short.
The growls seemed to be those of a big dog, and the shrieks those of a little girl. Both sounds came from an inner yard of the farm, through which there was a public right of way. Something in the shrieks made Mrs. Rowles's cheek turn pale, and something in the growls made Juliet's face flush red.
"Oh, dear!" cried Mrs. Rowles, "it is some child in danger!"
JULIET SEIZED THE DOG BY HIS COLLAR.JULIET SEIZED THE DOG BY HIS COLLAR.
"It is some horrid cruel dog!" said Juliet.
The aunt went cautiously through the gate into the inner yard, and the niece rushed through it boldly. What they saw was indeed alarming.
Little Emily Rowles was in a corner of the wall, shut in there on one side by a great high kennel, and on the other side by the huge mastiff who belonged to the kennel. He lay on the ground, his head on his paws, and his eyes fixed on the child; and whenever she made the slightest movement he growled in the fiercest manner. No wonder she uttered cries of dread and despair.
Before Mrs. Rowles could think what was best to do, Juliet had done it.
Fearless, because she did not understand the danger, Juliet rushed at the dog, seized him by his collar, and with all her strength pulled him away from the corner. He was so astonished at finding himself thus handled that all his fierceness, half of which was pretended, died out of him, and he looked up wildly at the new-comer, and forgot the other girl whom he had been bullying with such pleasure.
Emily had leaped into her mother's arms, and was sobbing with excitement and relief.
"My child! my darling! how did it happen? How came you to get caught by that brute? How came you to be here at all?"
Emily was still unable to reply. Her mother carried her to a bench at the other side of the yard, and soothed her until she was calm again.
But Juliet stood beside the dog; he was ashamed of himself, and he bowed to a will stronger than his own. He felt that she was not afraid of him, and he was afraid of her. Not that he had had any intention of really hurting Emily; but it had seemed to him great fun, after doing nothing all day but doze in the shade, to keep a child in custody, and hear her cries for help.
"What made you come here, Emily?" said Mrs. Rowles again.
"Oh, father said Philip and I might come and meet you. And we did not know which way you would come, so Philip went by the road and I came by the fields."
"But how did you get over by the dog's kennel?"
"Oh, he was inside it, and I thought he was asleep. So I just went up to look in at him, and he bounced out and shut me into the corner; and he growled horribly, and would not let me come out."
"Poor child! And all the folks in the hay-field, I suppose, and not a creature within call. I've often told you, Emily, not to go near strange dogs."
"Yes, mother, I know. It was my own fault."
"And if I had not happened to come this way—"
"I must have stayed there till the folks came from the hay-field. I should have pretty near died of fright. Mother, who is that little girl?"
Then Mrs. Rowles remembered her niece.
Juliet had remained within a few paces of the dog, and stood like a statue, looking straight before her, as if she did not wish to see Mrs. Rowles and Emily. Her face was pale now, her mouth set, and her brows knitted with their most sullen expression. Her aspect was anything but attractive.
"Come here, Juliet, my dear," her aunt called out. "Let me thank you and kiss you."
Juliet did not stir.
"I want to thank you and—" Emily, clasped in her mother's arms, could not bring herself to add "kiss you."
"I don't want no thanks and no kisses," said the London child.
"Oh, but you have been so brave and good."
"I'm not a screaming coward likeher," said Juliet; "that's all. Are we going to stay here all night?"
Emily whispered to her mother, "Who is she?"
"Your poor cousin from London. You must beverykind to her, poor girl; she issodisagreeable."
Emily looked with a sort of awe at her sullen cousin.
Then Mrs. Rowles set her own child on the ground, and went and put her hand on Juliet's shoulder, saying, "Emily wants to thank you for being so brave. Youhavea spirit of your own!"
Juliet coloured as if angry at being praised, and said, "It ain't no use to have a spirit when you are stupid and awkward. I tore my sleeve with pulling at that dog."
"Oh, that is nothing; that can be mended. Now we must be getting home, or father will wonder where we are."
They went through the gate at the further side of the farm, and came out into fields. In one of these, but at a little distance, they saw the farmer and all his men and maids busily turning over the hay that it might be well dried by the early sun next morning. Juliet asked no questions, though she was surprised at every step by strange country customs; and it did not cross the minds of Mrs. Rowles and Emily to explain what they themselves knew so well. Indeed, Emily was still trembling from the fright she had undergone, and Mrs. Rowles's thoughts were fully occupied.
They came to a stile over which they climbed, Juliet so awkwardly that she slipped into a ditch among sting-nettles.
"Oh, the horrid things!" she exclaimed; "they've bitten me!"
"It is only nettles," said her aunt; "you've got stung."
"I see the marks of their teeth," persisted Juliet, rubbing the little spots made by the nettles.
Emily would have laughed at her cousin, but that she felt too much depressed by her own adventure.
And then they were on the towing-path, and the great river, all glowing with the reflected gold and red of the sunset sky, was gliding past them on its peaceful way.
"There!" said Mrs. Rowles, "do you know what that is, Juliet?"
"A river."
"Yes, it is the Thames,"
"No, it ain't; not my Thames."
"Yes, my dear; though you do contradict me, it is the Thames for all that."
"I know the Thames well enough," said Juliet; "it is twice as broad as this. And it is all inky-like; and it has wharves and smoky chimneys and steamboats and masts all over it. This ain't no Thames; I know bettor than that."
"Oh, but, cousin Juliet," Emily put in, "the Thames is young here, and it is old at London. Some day you will get old, and once on a time mother was a little girl like you."
Still unconvinced the London child made no rejoinder.
Mrs. Rowles began to cross to the lock-house by the planks of the lock.
"Come carefully, Juliet, you are not used to this."
Juliet marched across the narrow bridge with firm foot and steady eye. Emily followed nervously.
On the island they found Mr. Rowles; and Philip, who, not meeting his mother on the road from the station, had hurried home again. He and his father stared at Juliet.
"Well, I never!" cried Mr. Rowles. "Whom have we here?"
"Oh, Ned," said his wife soothingly, "it is your own little niece, Juliet Mitchell. I thought you'd like to have her here a bit, seeing as they are none too well off, and she's never been in the real country at all till now."
Rowles whistled doubtfully. He stood there in his shirt sleeves, with his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, and his black straw hat pushed back on his head. His eyes were fixed on his niece's face with a gaze of inquiry, and a sort of dislike seemed to grow up in his heart and in hers.
"Oh, very well," he said, at length. "Where's your box?"
Juliet did not know what he meant.
"Where's your box—your luggage?"
"Haven't got any," said Juliet.
"Then where's your Sunday frock?"
"Haven't got one," said Juliet; "it's at the pawn-shop."
Rowles whistled more fiercely.
"I say, Emma, I'll be bound you found that fellow Mitchell in bed—now, didn't you?"
"Yes, Ned, I did; because—"
"I knew it. And I never knew any good come of lying in bed by day and sitting up at night to do your work, or pretend to do it."
"But that is his business, Ned."
"Then it is a bad business, say I."
"And people must have morning papers. Besides, Thomas is ill."
"And likely to be ill, I should say, sleeping by day and working by night."
Mrs. Rowles drew her husband aside to tell him quietly the condition in which she had found his sister. He was softened by the sad story, but persisted in thinking that all Mitchell's misfortunes arose from the fact that he worked by night and slept by day. "It is going against nature," he said. "Why, the sun shows you what you ought to do. You don't catch the sun staying up after daylight or going down in the morning."
"But the moon and stars are up by night," said Mrs. Rowles laughing.
"The moon's a she; and as for the stars, they are little uns, and children are always contrary."
Mr. Rowles grew good-tempered over his own wit, and at length allowed that Thomas Mitchell's mode of life was a necessary evil, but an evil all the same. Then he said that he had not had any idea that the Mitchells were badly off; he had only been to see them twice since their marriage, when they had appeared to be comfortable. And he had always supposed that money was to be had in London almost for the asking. In fact, he was one of the old-fashioned sort, and never troubled himself about London ways; and he did not think his sister's affairs any concern of his. But if Mary was so badly off, and it was a help to her to get Juliet out of the way, why Juliet might stay as long as she liked. One mouth more would not make much difference. He could not say fairer than that, could he?
Mrs. Rowles was quite content with the fairness of his speech; and she went into the house, brought out from her cupboard some odds and ends for supper, and then lighted the lamp and called in her husband and the children.
"Suppose you say grace, Juliet," said Mr. Rowles. He quite expected to find that she did not know what he meant.
But she spoke the right words clearly and reverently.
When they had nearly finished their supper, Rowles suddenly turned to Juliet, saying, "Your father has his supper along of your breakfast, don't he?"
"Yes," replied Juliet, "when we have a breakfast."
"Don't you always have a breakfast?"
"Most days, when mother has got on with her work."
Rowles turned away.
A cry of "Lock-man! Hie! Lock-man!" sounded on the calm evening air.
Rowles went out, and his voice was heard in conversation with that of another man; then the lifting up of the sluices broke the stillness, and the creaking of the lock-gate as it opened. After that Rowles came in again, laughing scornfully.
"It was the chap that slipped into the water this morning. He is a persevering chap, to be sure. He says he is determined to learn to row, and to swim, and to punt, and to fish. And he went down this afternoon, and now he's gone up, and he is dead-beat already; and how he'll get home he can't tell for the life of him. Why, he knows just as much about boating as Juliet there. I'd like to see him and her double sculling. They'd just be a pair, they would."
Juliet listened to everything but said little, and when she was ordered off to bed she silentlyfollowed Emily up to the attic, where Mrs. Rowles had already contrived to make a second little bed on the floor.
After she was in bed Juliet listened for a long while to the roar of the weir, wondering at what she thought must be distant thunder. Then the occasional twitter of a bird, or the soft lowing of a cow, or the splash of a fish leaping in the river, disturbed her from her thoughts and startled her. And once, when all was very dark and very silent, she heard the regular pulse of oars, and the clanking of chains, and the creaking of wood, and subdued voices; and she imagined robbers. But all became quiet again; and at last, at last, her ideas grew confused, and she fell asleep.
HOW wonderful the country seemed to the London child! Everything was strange and beautiful. And though Juliet would not confess how surprised she felt, yet by little looks and words her aunt and cousins knew that she was taking in fresh ideas every minute.
They asked her how she slept. She replied that she could not sleep well because it was so dreadfully quiet; if it had not been for the noise of the "buses" a long way off, and those folks that came home late and creaked their door, she would not have been able to go to sleep at all. "My ears was all stretched like," said Juliet, "and wanted something to work on."
When they told how the distantbuseswas the roar of the weir, and the late-comers a party of gentlemen managing the lock for themselves, she tried to appear as if she quite understood, but she did not succeed.
"Some of them stay out late and let themselvesthrough at 2a.m., and some of them get up early and let themselves through at 3a.m., but it is none of my business to get out of bed for pleasure-boats." Thus said Mr. Rowles.
"Who arethey?" asked Juliet.
"Oh, the folks on the river. You'll see plenty of them if you stay here long enough."
Juliet was not much the wiser; she had heard of mermaids, and thought at first that the folks on the river must be of that race of beings. But she waited to see.
Then Mrs. Rowles said that Juliet must make herself useful, and might begin by fetching some water from the well.
Juliet did not know what a well might be; but she took up a jug and went out to the riverside. There was a boat pulled up to the bank on the side of the island away from the towing-path, and as all she thought about was the fact that she was to bring water, she climbed into the boat, over the thwarts, and up to the stern. As she crept along she saw in the shadowed water at the side of the boat a vast number of little fish playing together, and, like any other child, she wanted to catch some of them. She dipped the jug down among them, as she supposed, but alas! instead of winning the minnows she lost the jug! The handle grew slippery when wet, and away it went out of her hand, falling with a crash on a bigstone, and lying in fragments on the gravel beneath the water.
Juliet was in consternation. "I say, what a scolding I shall get! Even mother used to scold a little sometimes when I smashed so much crockery. And Aunt Emma—and that dreadful cross Uncle Rowles—!"
The child gasped for breath, but returned indoors where her aunt was putting away the remains of the breakfast.
"Why, Juliet, child, you look scared. Have you fetched the water?"
"No, aunt; 'cause I've broke the jug."
"Broke the jug! What jug?"
"The jug I took to get the water in. As soon as ever I put it in the river it just slipped away and went into pieces."
"Dear, dear! Which jug was it?"
"It was a yellow one with blue flowers on it."
"Oh, that one!" and Mrs. Rowles's face cleared. "If it was only that old one with the broken spout and the cracked handle I really don't care a bit."
"I am always so unlucky with crockery," said Juliet. "I've broke enough in my time to pave Cheapside—jugs and cups and basins."
"Oh, child!" said her aunt, shocked at the exaggeration.
"That's what the people in our house used tosay every time I broke anything. I'm always unlucky."
"Well, never mind; this time you've been very clever. That yellow jug was horrid ugly, and being shabby at the spout and the handle, I often wished it would get itself broken instead of the pretty new ones. I'm quite glad you've broken it; I think you were very clever to break that one."
So said the kind aunt, hoping to soothe Juliet's sorrow for her awkwardness and carelessness. This sort of praise was quite new to the child. To be praised instead of reproved for her stupidity, to be met with smiles rather than sighs, was something so uncommon that Juliet almost believed that she really had done a clever and useful deed. After a few minutes she quite believed it, and held up her head, taking credit for her breakage which was so clever and so amusing.
Then Mrs. Rowles called Emily and bade her take Juliet to the well and show her how to draw a bucket of water. A loud scream was heard, and Mrs. Rowles's heart almost ceased beating, so fearful was she that one of the children had fallen into the well. She ran out to the back of the house, and saw the two girls standing together with consternation on their faces. It appeared that Juliet had insisted on lowering the bucket by the windlass, and that, by some awkward mi she had let it fall off the hook, and there it lay at the bottom of the well, and there seemed to be no means of getting it back again.
This time Mrs. Rowles could not find any consolation for Juliet on the subject of her stupidity.
"I always do let things drop," said the child, keeping back tears of vexation. "Once I let baby drop, and once I let a loaf drop in the mud that the scavengers had swept to the side of the road. I'm too stupid and awkward for the country. I'd better go back to London where it does not show so much among such a many more awkward people."
Mrs. Rowles put aside all Juliet's remarks, and Emily was anxious to know what kind of things "scavengers" might be, and when Mr. Rowles could be spared from the lock he brought a punting pole, and after a good deal of trouble fished up the bucket. He called Juliet a little idiot; and Philip remarked that girls never could do anything, especially London ones, who are always so conceited and stuck-up.
Poor Juliet felt very unhappy. There was no use in trying to do better; all her relations were joined together against her. Her father and mother had sent her away because she was so stupid, and now her uncle and aunt did not want her. Well, she did not care. She did not ask themto have her on a visit; they must put up with her ways if they chose to have her.
"Juliet," said Mrs. Rowles, "do you know what radishes are?"
"Yes."
"Then will you pull some from the lot that are growing near the pig-sty? I like the white ones best."
Juliet made no answer, but marched out into the garden and presently returned with a bunch of turnips.
"Oh, my dear child, but those are not radishes! You did not find those near the pig-sty."
"No."
"I am afraid you did not attend to what I said. I am sorry you have pulled these. Your uncle will be vexed."
"I don't care," said Juliet; "you should not send me on your errands."
These unkind words made Mrs. Rowles feel very sad. Grown people often make children unhappy, and children make grown people unhappy very, very often.
It was quite certain that this sullen girl who would not take the trouble to do better, caused a great deal of annoyance to her relations. But they did not intend to get tired of her until they had given her every chance of correcting some of her faults. On the Sunday they dressed herin some of Emily's good clothes, and they were glad to see that she looked nice in them. She went to church in the morning with her aunt; Philip and Emily were with the Sunday-schools. In the evening Mr. Rowles was able to go to church, having engaged a young man to look after the lock for a couple of hours.
Philip thought himself capable of managing locks and boats and punts and everything else. When they came back from church that evening he, with the two girls, got into the old boat from which Juliet had dropped the poor yellow jug.
"Give us a row, Phil," said Emily.
"All right, here goes'" he replied, and he untied the boat from the post to which she was fastened, and took up the sculls and off they went.
It was a lovely summer evening. Mr. and Mrs. Rowles stood on the bank of their island and watched the young voyagers. Philip was quite used to boating and they had no fears. He hardly needed to pull at all, the stream took them down so quickly. Juliet's ill-humour gave way when all around was so delightful. She saw the clear, rippling water, and the deep green shade under the trees, and the withies waving their tops, and forget-me-nots lying in blue patches under the bank; and larks were trilling overhead, and wagtails dabbling on the shelving gravel tow-path.
"Oh!" she said sighing, "it is beautiful!"
They were now coming up the stream again, and keeping out of the current under the bank of an island. There were some swans lying among the withies and rushes.
"What are those great white birds?" asked Juliet.
"Don't you know swans when you see them?" was Philip's retort.
"No; I don't know almost nothing."
"Well, then, I can tell you that a blow from a swan's wing will break a man's leg, and a peck from a swan's bill would knock out both your eyes. Hie! Swish!"
And Philip pulled the boat as close as he could to the swans, who instantly grew very angry, and stretched out their long necks, hissing loudly, and flapped their great wings on the water.
Emily gave a shriek, and threw herself to the further side of the boat, in terror lest the swans should strike her or peck at her. Her sudden movement sent the boat deep into the water on her side, and Juliet thought they would be upset. But she was not so frightened as to lose her wits. She did not like the swans, but the danger of being drowned was greater than that of being pecked; and to keep the boat steady she leaned over on the side of the birds, while Philip, also alarmed, gave a few strong strokes, and placed them beyond further peril.
"Emily," he said, "how could you be so stupid? Don't you know that you must always sit still in a boat?"
"Yes," she answered, half crying; "but you frightened me so about the swans."
"Girls never can take a bit of fun. And if Juliet had not leaned the other way so as to balance you, we might all have been in the water, and the swans would have got you, and you might never have seen Littlebourne Eyot again."
At this Emily cried outright.
Juliet asked Philip what he meant by an eyot. He told her that an island in the Thames is called aneyotorait; and he also said that she had more sense than most girls, and if she liked he would teach her how to row, which some women can do almost as well as men.
"I should think I could do it without being taught," said Juliet.
"No, you could not. You would catch crabs, and you would feather in the air, and you would run into the banks, and go aground on the shallows, and be carried over the weirs."
"I should not care," said Juliet. "I could eat the crabs, and make a pillow of the feathers; I am not afraid."
"You have a good deal of pluck for a girl," said Philip; "but don't you get playing with boats, or you will come to grief."
"I sha'n't askyourleave," said Juliet.
"I sha'n't give it," replied Philip with a rough laugh.
And Juliet spoke no more, but knitted her brows fiercely.
When the children landed at the lock, and told of the adventure with the swans, Mrs. Rowles was profuse with praise of Juliet's presence of mind. In fact she was almost too profuse, and wishing to encourage her niece ran the risk of making her conceited. Juliet's brows grew smooth, her eyes brightened, her head rose higher.
"Oh, well," she said aside to Emily, "it is not so difficult to manage a boat if you have your wits about you. When people give way and lose their wits, then it is dangerous, if you like."
Which remarks seemed to Emily extremely sensible, but to Philip, who overheard them, extremely foolish.
During the next week Mrs. Rowles felt that Juliet was improving in temper and conduct; praise was doing the child good she thought. She did not know that it was also doing her harm.
One day a letter and a parcel came for Juliet. The letter was from her mother, full of good news. Mr. Mitchell had gone to work again; she had herself made a summer mantle for one of Miss Sutton's friends, and had been paid fourand sixpence for it. Albert had got a rise of a shilling a-week; and baby's cheeks were getting to have quite a colour. Mrs. Mitchell was sure that Juliet was very good and very happy, and making herself useful to her aunt and uncle. And when they could spare her to come back to London she must get a little place, and earn her own living like a woman. If Mrs. Mitchell had any fresh troubles since Juliet left home, she did not mention them in her letter.
Then the parcel—ah! that came from Miss Sutton and some of her friends at the West-end. It contained nice articles of clothing. A pair of strong boots, two pink cotton pinafores, some few other things, and a clean, large-print prayerbook. Juliet's face grew so happy over her letter and her presents that, to Mrs. Rowles surprise, it became quite pretty. This was the first time that she had perceived how the girl's ill-tempered countenance spoilt her really good features.
"Is she like her father or her mother?" Mr. Rowles inquired of his wife. "But there! she can't be like her father—a pasty-faced, drowsy fellow, always sleeping in the daytime, and never getting a bit of sunshine to freshen him up. Not like some of them, camping out and doing their cooking in the open air, and getting burnt as black as gipsies. There they are—at it again!"
And he went out to the lock.
There were two boats waiting to go down. The people in one of them were quite unknown to Rowles, but in the second was that middle-aged man who was so determined to learn to row.
"How are you getting on, sir?" asked Rowles. "Easier work now, ain't it?"
The man seemed unwilling to reply. He had an oar, and with him was a youth in a suit of flannels pulling the other oar, while on the seat sat an elderly gentleman steering.
"Did you find it very hard at first?" said the lad to his colleague.
"Yes, I did, Mr. Leonard; and I don't find it any too easy now."
The old gentleman laughed. "Well, Roberts, take it coolly going down stream, and reserve your energies for coming up. I say, lock-keeper, I am told that you let lodgings; have you any rooms vacant?"
"My missus has two rooms, sir," replied Rowles, as he leaned on the great white wooden handle while the lock was emptying through the sluices of the lower gates. "There is a gentleman who generally comes in August, being an upper-class lawyer and can't leave his work till the best of the summer is over, just like printers who lie in bed all day and work all night."
"Don't say a word against printers," said theold gentleman laughing. "That won't do, will it Leonard?"
"No, father," the youth replied.
"So, as I was saying," Rowles went on, "he comes here every August and September, and letters come by the bushel with Q.C. on them; and young Walker—the postman, you know—would just as soon he staid in London. But before August and after September Mrs. Rowles has a tidy little sitting-room and bed-room, if so be as you know anyone would be likely to take them."
"I was only thinking," said the gentleman, "that the hotel is rather too expensive—"
By this time the boat had floated near to the lower gates.
"Hold her up! hold her up!" cried Rowles, "or I can't open the gates. Not you, sir," he added to the stranger who was sculling the other boat; "but you, I mean, Mr. Robert."
For Rowles had caught the name of the servant who was so persevering on the river.
"All right," returned Roberts; "give Mr. Burnet the ticket, please."
Rowles stooped down and gave the old gentleman the ticket for the lock, and then the two boats passed out into the open stream. The lock-keeper went indoors to ask if dinner was ready.
"Quite ready," was Mrs. Rowles's cheerful reply. "Call the children in, will you, Ned?"
He went out by the backdoor into the garden, and saw how the sky was clouding up from the south-west. "Rain coming; bring on the scarlet-runners and the marrows. Phil-lip! Emil-ly! Jule-liet! Come in to dinner."
Then Philip appeared, hot and tired from digging; and Emily came with some needlework at which she had been stitching in the intervals of watching her brother. The holidays had begun, and they were thoroughly enjoyed by these children.
"And where is Juliet?"
"I don't know," answered Emily.
"Well, you must bring her in. Mother says dinner is quite ready."
"I think she must be in our bed-room," and Emily went upstairs to seek her cousin, and to wash her own dusty little hands.
But Juliet was not in the attic.
"Then she must have gone into the lodgers' rooms," said Mrs. Rowles.
But there was no sign of her in those shut-up rooms; no sign of her anywhere in the house, nor in the garden, nor on the eyot at all, nor on the towing-path as far as could be seen.
"What can have become of her?"
"Well, well," said Mr. Rowles, "never mind; we must eat our dinners without her. She would not miss her share of this cabbage if she knew how tasty and juicy it is."
Mrs. Rowles sat down very unwillingly. If the child was not on the island where could she be? It was very strange.
"She has no idea of time," Mr. Rowles went on, between mouthfuls of the cabbage. "I'm not going to blame her for that; she only takes after her father, who does not know day from night."
They had a dull meal, being more anxious about Juliet than they cared to confess to each other. They thought she might have gone up the towing-path, or down the towing-path, or by the road towards the village, or by the fields towards the station. And at every sound from outside someone went to the door peering out with the hope of seeing the child. But an hour passed, and no Juliet appeared. Then her auntbecame seriously anxious, dreading lest some terrible thing should have happened.
"If she had fallen into the lock—" said Mrs. Rowles.
"We should have heard her scream," said Mr. Rowles.
"If she had been kidnapped by gipsies," said Emily; "but then—"
"There are no gipsies about," said Philip.
Mrs. Rowles now began to think that Juliet must have set off to go home. "We have not been kind enough to her, poor child, and she can't bear it any longer."
"Don't talk nonsense," was Rowles's reply, as he obeyed a call to the lock. "We've been too kind; and if Thomas Mitchell had taken to any sensible business that did not keep him up all night, thereby breaking down his health, he would be able to support his family, and there would be no need for us to bother ourselves with such a cross-grained girl as that. Now, Phil, off to your digging again. Yes, gents, I know; how they do keep calling out for one, to be sure!"
Philip went out to the kitchen-garden. Within a few minutes his voice was heard, loudly raised.
"Here! Father! Mother! Emily! Come quick! Just look here!"
All three responded to his call
"Whatever is the matter?"
"Why, look there! The boat is gone!"
"So she is! Well, I never!" and Mr. Rowles stared blankly at the post to which his boat was usually moored. "Someone has made off with theFairy. That beats everything!"
Mrs. Rowles was wringing her hands. "Oh, dear, dear, dear! This is worse than I expected. She never will come home again safe!"
"No," said the lock-keeper, "them that has took her are not likely to send her back; and if so be as she has drifted down by accident she will be drawn over Banksome Weir and be smashed. I'm glad she is only an old, worn-out thing."
"An old, worn-out thing!" cried Mrs. Rowles, quite wildly. "A poor, dear child of twelve! What are you thinking of?"
"I was thinking of theFairy. You don't mean, wife—" and he grew more serious—"you don't mean that you think the child was in her?"
"That is what I do think, Ned."
"Well, that is bad."
"And see," cried Phil, "she must have taken the sculls, for they are gone too. I know Juliet thought she could manage a boat; she said so the other day."
Emily was crying. Mr and Mrs. Rowles looked at each other in an agony. They knew pretty well what must happen to Juliet alone in a boat. She would be carried rapidly down stream, andthe current would draw the little bark to the weir, and over the weir, and it would be dashed about by the swirling rush of water, capsized, and its occupant thrown out. And nothing more would be seen of poor Juliet but a white, lifeless body carried home.
Oh, it was too sad to think of!
"What can we do? What can we do? What would her own mother do?"
"Hope for the best, Emma," said Mr. Rowles. "If I had another boat I would send Phil down to look for her. Perhaps the next boat that goes through would let him jump into the bows."
"I might run down the towing-path," said Phil. "I can run pretty quick."
"And if you did see her in theFairyout in mid-stream, how could you get near enough to help her? No; the only chance will be to ask some of them to take you down in their boat. Here they come; both ways."
The lower gate of the lock was open, so that the boat coming up passed through first. Rowles worked the handles as quickly as he could; standing on the bank while the lock filled he asked the two gentlemen in the boat if they had seen anything of a little girl out by herself on the river.
"No," replied one of the young men; "we only started from just below Littlebourne Ferry. I have noticed no little girl in a boat."
"Nor I," added the other gentleman. "And I think I should have noticed such a person, for little girls don't often go out boating alone."
"And an ignorant London child, too," groaned Mr. Rowles. "And many a time I told her never to think of boating by herself; but she is so obstinate and so stupid, there is no knowing what she has done. And if you gentlemen have not met her, she must have got below Littlebourne Ferry, and then she would be very near Banksome Weir, and there is no saying what has become of her."
The two gentlemen looked very grave, but did not offer to turn and go down stream to look for Juliet.
As their boat came out of the lock another was waiting to come in. It contained Mr. Webster, the vicar of Littlebourne, and his wife.
"Beg your pardon, sir," said Rowles as soon as he had closed the gate above them, "would you mind if Philip was to jump into your bows and go down a bit with you? Because there's a girl, my niece in fact, who must have gone off in my littleFairy, and she don't know bow oar from stroke, and if she gets alongside Banksome Weir she'll go over and be drowned."
"Oh, dear me!" said Mr. Webster. "How did the child come to be all alone in a boat?"
"Through being brought up without a grain ofsense. What can you expect when the father sleeps all day so that he never can give a word of advice to his children? Now, in with you, Phil; and I shall be glad to see you come back—" he broke off with a cough.
"I will pull as hard as I can," said Mr. Webster. "We must hope that by God's mercy the child will be saved."
Phil dropped from the bank into the boat, and the moment they were out of the lock the boat went flying down the river as fast as the current and the vicar's strong arms could send her.
"She will be very wet when she comes in," said Mrs. Rowles; "it is beginning to rain."
"She'll be pretty wet if she's been in the river," said Mr. Rowles.
His wife heaped up the kitchen fire and put coffee on to boil, and laid some clean garments to get warm, and waited with anxious heart for some news of the missing child.
Emily went up to the attic and looked at the belongings of Juliet, which lay on the table and hung on pegs. Her cousin's real character was better known to Emily than to anyone else at Littlebourne Lock. Juliet was proud and conceited, and thought she could do whatever other people did; then, when her carelessness brought her into accidents and difficulties, she would grow very cross and angry with herself, and whenreproved for her faults would say, "I don't care; I'm that stupid and awkward that I can't do anything right." Emily had seen her stamping on the ground at the end of the garden after some unfortunate occurrence, and had heard her sobbing and choking in her bed after some stern words from Mr. Rowles. Emily knew that it was not humility but wounded pride which made Juliet so sullen and dull; and Emily wondered if a girl who did not wish to learn, and would not condescend to be taught, could ever possibly improve.
"And if she is drowned," cried Emily with a burst of tears, "she can never learn anything more on earth! Oh, I do pray to God to let Juliet be saved, and learn, and grow better!"
The sky became dark, distant thunder growled over the hill; would Juliet Mitchell escape the consequences of her disobedience and self-conceit?