Neville looked round in a sort of despair. There were two or three vehicles still standing just outside the gate of the station. A cart or two, and a queer sort of canvas-hooded van, into which the porter was hoisting some parcels, though it seemed already pretty full of sacks of flour or grain of some kind. Neville opened his umbrella and went to where these carts were standing, looking about him for some promising sort of person to apply to in his distress.
'Can you tell me,' he began to the porter, but the porter was shouting in Welsh to the man in the van, and did not hear him. Neville thought he had better wait a minute, and he stood still, shivering with cold and vexation, the rainpouring down as surely never before rain had poured. Suddenly a voice beside him made him turn round; it was that of the old farmer, who had till now been engaged in the stationmaster's room, talking about the horse which was coming the next day.
'Is the lady not come? Is there no one to meet you?' he asked.
'No, indeed,' said Neville, 'and I don't knowwhatto do.'
The old man looked sorry and perplexed, but Neville's face brightened at having found a friend. Just then the porter emerged again from the van.
'Hi, John Williams!' the farmer called out, and then followed some colloquy in Welsh, amid which Neville distinguished the words 'Hafod' and 'Ty-gwyn.'
The farmer turned to the boy.
'This is the Hafod carrier,' he said. 'He is going there now. He is very full, but he says as it is for Ty-gwyn he will make a push and take you and the young lady. But he can't take your boxes, not to-day. Still, it's a chance to get him to take yoursel's, and if you can make shift to do till to-morrow'—
'Of course,' said Neville; 'it's the only thing to do, and thank you very much indeed, Mr.'—
'John Davis, sir, John Davis of Dol-bach, if you please.'
'Mr. Davis,' continued Neville. 'Kathie,'—for by this time Kathie's anxiety had drawn her out into the rain too,—'youhear?' And he rapidly explained the state of matters.
'If it hadn't been for Mr. Davis, the carrier wouldn't have taken us.'
'No,' said the farmer, looking pleased. 'I can't say as I think he would.'
But Kathleen could not join in thanking him. She was tired and cross, and not a little annoyed at having to make their appearance at Ty-gwyn in such ignominious fashion.
'It's really ashameof Aunt Clotilda,' she said. 'I do wish we hadn't come. I hate Wales already.'
eville and the old farmer and the carrier all helped Kathleen up into the van, where John Williams had made her as comfortable a place as he could on the bench that was fixed at one end, with some of the sacks to lean against, and some to put her feet upon. Neville undid his railway rug and wrapped it round her, for the rain had made the air very chilly. The trunks were given into the charge of the porter to be fetched the next day, as Miss Clotilda might direct, and with repeated thanks from Neville to the old farmer, and a cordial shake of the hand at parting, off they set.
At another time, on a fine day perhaps, and not at the end of a tiring railway journey, Kathleen might have found it amusing. And as a rule, she was far merrier and high-spirited than Neville, though, to see them now, one would scarcely have believed it. But Neville had learnt to think of others more than of himself.Therewas the difference.Kathleen could be bright and laughing when all went well with her, but it never occurred to her that it may be a duty to be cheerful and even merry when one isnotinclined to be so, so she just yielded to her feelings of fatigue and depression, and sat silently in her place, thinking herself, to tell the truth, very good indeed not to grumble aloud. Neville did his best.Hewas tired too—tired and cold, for he had given his rug to Kathie, and hungry, perhaps hungrier than Kathie, for she had had the lion's share of their dinner. He was anxious and uneasy as well,—blaming himself for not having decided to wait till Friday, by which day there would have been time for an answer from their aunt,—blaming himself vaguely for the whole affair, which he felt from first to last had been his doing. And he was afraid as to what might yet be before them. It seemed impossible that Miss Clotilda should not have got the letter fixing for Wednesday. So what could be the matter? Had she fallen ill? Had Mr. Wynne-Carr suddenly changed his mind, and turned her out of the house? What might they not find when they got to Ty-gwyn? If, indeed, they ever got there! It did not seem very like it just then, certainly. They were going up a hill at a foot's pace, and they seemed to have been doing so, with very rare intervals, ever since they left the station. How the van lurched and jolted! and, oh, how it did rain!
'Kathleen,' said Neville timidly.
'Well,' she replied, in a very unpromising tone. It wasso dark in the depths of the van—and, indeed, it was getting dusk outside already—that they could scarcely see each other's faces.
'I'm so very sorry for you, Kathie,' Neville went on. 'I'm afraid it's somehow my fault.'
'It's no good saying that now,' Kathleen replied, and her voice sounded a little mollified. 'Of course it isn't your fault. It's all Aunt Clotilda. Neville, I'm sure she can't be nice. If she had had anything to gain by hiding it, I declare I should have believed she herself had hidden the will—or burnt it, or something. Justfancyher letting us—her brother's own children—arrive like this! I daresay it was just selfishness, because it was such a bad day, that kept her from coming.'
'Oh, Kathie!' said Neville. He felt sure in his heart that Miss Clotilda was not the least like what Kathleen said, but in her present humour he knew that it was worse than useless to contradict or even disagree with his sister. 'I wish there was something to eat,' he said. 'If we could but have had some tea at the station, but there was no sort of refreshment-room.'
'Wales is horrid,' said Kathleen, with great emphasis. 'If papa had got that place I should have made him sell it.'
'I do wish the man would drive a little faster,' said Neville, rather with a view to changing the subject, as he could not agree with Kathie.
The wish in this case proved father to the deed. Scarcelyhad the words passed his lips when, with a crack of his whip and some mysterious communication to his horse in Welsh, Mr. John Williams's van began to move forward at what, in comparison with their former rate of progression, seemed to the children break-neck speed. For a minute or so their spirits rose.
'We've got up the hill now, I suppose,' said Neville cheerily. 'If we go on like this we'll soon be there.'
But an exclamation from Kathie—'Oh, Neville! I shall die if we go on like this. It does shake me, and knock me about so. I'm all black and blue already!'—made him change.
'I'msosorry, Kathie,' he repeated. 'Stay; is there nothing I can put on the seat to make it softer? Or supposing you sit right down among the sacks? I do think that would be better.'
It did seem so for a little while. But, after all, there was not much need for the precautions. Scarcely was Kathie settled among the sacks when the jogging and rattling came to an untimely end, and the slow grind and creak began again. Another hill, doubtless. Alas! it was so—another and yet another; the bits of level road seemed so few and far between, that long before the end of the journey Kathie would have borne the jolts and the bruises with philosophy, just for the sake of feeling they were getting over the ground.
It grew into a sort of nightmare—the still pouring rain,the darkness, just rendered more visible by the faint flicker from the lantern which John Williams had now lighted, and which hung from the top of the van in front, the creaking and groaning of the wheels, the queer sounds Williams addressed from time to time to his horse—it came to seem at last to the children, as they every now and then fell asleep in a miserable half-awake kind of way, only to start up again giddy and confused—it came to seem as if they hadalwaysbeen grinding along like that, and as if it would never come to an end.
'Neville,' whispered Kathie more than once,—a very subdued Kathie now, far too worn out to be cross even,—'Neville, I feel as if I shoulddiebefore we get there.'
HE SAT DOWN ON THE FLOOR OF THE CART, AND TOOK KATHIE HALF INTO HIS ARMS.
Neville did all he could. He sat down on the floor of the cart, and took Kathie half into his arms, so that she could lean her head on his shoulder and not be so bumped, for every now and then they would go quickly for a few minutes, and Kathie was too weak and stiff now to be able to hold on to anything. In this way she managed to get a little sleep, and at last,at last, John Williams grunted out from the front of the van,
'Close to, now, master. I've come round by Ty-gwyn a-purpose, afore going through the village.'
And in a few minutes he drew up, and got down to open a gate. Then on they went again, slowly and softly. Neville could feel they were on a gravel drive, though it was far too dark to see anything. How Williams had foundhis way in the pouring rain, with only the flickering light of the lantern, was really wonderful.
The drive seemed to be a long one, and the wheels made very little sound on the soft slushy gravel. When they stopped altogether, Neville would not have known they were near a house at all, but for what the man had said. There was no light visible, no sound, not even the barking of a dog to be heard, nothing but the drip, drip of the rain.
Kathleen sat up—the stopping had awakened her.
'Where are we?' she said. 'Are we, oh, are we there?'
But before Neville had time to reply she began to tremble and shake. 'Oh, Neville,' she said, 'we can't be there. It's all dark. Oh, I believe we're in some dreadful forest, and that the man's going to murder us.'
Fortunately, John Williams was out of the van by this time. He had got down and was fumbling about to find a bell or a knocker; but when he reached up to unhook the lantern, finding it impossible to see anything without it, Kathie almost screamed. It was all Neville could do to quiet her, and at last he had to speak quite sharply.
'Be quiet, Kathie,' he said. 'They will be opening the door and will hear you. It's all right. Don't be silly.'
And gradually she grew calm, and sat anxiously listening. It was some minutes before John Williams's loud knocking brought any response. And no wonder—Miss Clotilda and Martha had been comfortably asleep for the last three if notfour hours, for it was now one o'clock, the heavy roads having made the journey from Frewern Bay quite a third longer than usual for the carrier's cart, and their dreams were undisturbed by visions of any such arrival as had come to pass.
'I do trust it will be fine to-morrow,' were Miss Clotilda's last words ere she went off to bed. 'It would be such a cheerless welcome for the dear children if it were such a day as this has been, even though Mr. Mortimer is kindly sending the covered waggonette. Wake me early, Martha. There are still several little things to see to, and I must start by twelve. It will take more than three hours to Frewern Station with the roads so wet—and the horses should have three or four hours' rest, he said. The train is due at seven.'
'But it's often late, miss. You mustn't worry even if it's half an hour or more late. I'll wake you in good time, never fear.'
They were both tired and slept soundly, for they had been working hard at all the preparations for the expected guests. It was Miss Clotilda who first heard through her sleep the loud knocking at the door. She sat up in bed and listened; then, as John Williams had for a minute or two desisted, to wait the effect of his last volley, she lay down again, thinking her fancy had deceived her.
'A small sound seems so loud through one's sleep,' she said. 'I daresay it was only the tapping of the branchesagainst the window. Besides, what elsecouldit be? Dear, dear, how it does rain!'
But scarcely had her head touched the pillow, when she again started up. There was no mistake this time—somebody was knocking,bangingat the front door. Miss Clotilda's heart was in her mouth, she could scarcely speak for trembling when she found her way to Martha's door! Good old Martha—she had heard it too now, and in an incredibly short space of time made her appearance in a much less eccentric costume, by the way, than Miss Clotilda.
'I'll see who it is. Don't ye be frightened, miss. Just stay you at the stairs-top till I call out.'
But Miss Clotilda, in her old-fashioned flowered muslin-de-laine dressing-gown, and lace-frilled nightcap, followed tremulously behind; she was only half-way downstairs, however when Martha was at the door.
'Who's there? Speak out, and say who you are and what you want—waking up decent folk at this hour of the night,' shouted the old woman, as if the unseen person behind the door,couldhave told their business before.
'It's me, John Williams, carrier,' a gruff voice replied. 'And you should know what I've brought you—a young gentleman and lady for Ty-Gwyn.'
He spoke English, as Martha had done so. The question and reply were therefore quite intelligible to poor Miss Clotilda.
'Oh, Martha!' she exclaimed, with something between a scream and a sob, 'the children!Whatan arrival!—oh dear, dear—what a disappointment!'
She stood there half wringing her hands, till Martha gently pushed her towards the stairs.
'Up with you, miss—get yourself dressed as well as you can, not to let them see you like you are—you make yourself look sixty with them caps. I'll take them into the kitchen and make up a fire, and then I'll call you. It'll be all right; but bless me,'—'plessme,' she really said with her funny Welsh accent,—'how ever has there been such a mistake?'
She was busy unbolting and unbarring by now, and Miss Clotilda had disappeared. There was but one candle in the hall, but to the children's dazzled eyes it looked at first like a blaze of light. Neville was already on the doorstep, and somehow or other Kathleen was got out of the van without falling. Both started when they caught sight of Martha.
'Canshebe Aunt Clotilda,' whispered Kathie, feeling that if it were so it would but be of a piece with everything else. And for a moment or two even Neville felt some misgiving.
'Are you—? We are'—and again he hesitated.
'To be sure, to be sure. Your aunty'll be down in a moment, sir; but to be sure there has indeed been some great mistake. Now, John Williams, good-night to you, and off with you. 'Tis no time for talking.' She added somethingto the effect that he might call the next day to be paid, but as she spoke Welsh, the children did not understand.
'I can't have him bothering about,' she said, as she closed the door.
'But our trunks,' said Neville. 'They're left at the station;' on which Martha opened the door again, and began scolding the poor man for not having told her so.
'It wasn't his fault,' said Neville, who could tell by her tone that poor John Williams was getting small thanks for his good-nature in bringing themselves, though without their luggage; 'he only brought us because we didn't know what else to do.'
And in the end it was settled that the carrier should call the next morning for orders about the trunks.
Then Martha led the children into the kitchen.
'You'll excuse it,' she said. 'The fire will soon light up again, and you must be near dead with cold—dear—dear!'
A FIGURE WAS STANDING IN THE DOORWAY.
She bustled about and soon got a little blaze to show. Kathie had sunk down on one of the old-fashioned wooden chairs, too tired to speak, almost to think, when a little sound made both her and Neville look round. A figure was standing in the doorway, peering in with anxious face and short-sighted eyes,—a tall, thin figure in a dark dress and with smooth dark hair, and a gentle voice was saying—
'Are they here, Martha? My poor dear children! Are they really here?'
Neville darted forward.
'Aunt Clotilda!' he exclaimed.
In a moment her arms were round him, and she was kissing him fondly.
'Neville,' she said, 'my own dear boy! David's boy! And where is little Kathleen? Oh, my poor children! What an arrival!—what a journey! How can I have made such a mistake?'
'Kathie,' said Neville, and Kathleen slowly got up from her seat and came forward. 'She is half dead, Aunt Clotilda,' said Neville apologetically. But Miss Clotilda wanted no apologies. Her heart was far too unselfish and tender to think of anything but the children themselves.
'Kathleen!' she exclaimed. 'Can this be little Kathie? Why, my darling, you will soon be as tall as your old aunt. But all the more you must be dreadfully tired—you cannot be very strong, my dear, growing so fast. Oh, I shall never, never forgive myself. What can we give them to eat, Martha?'
Martha was already concocting something in a little pan on the fire.
'I'm heating up some milk, miss, and I'll have an egg beat in a moment, and we'd better add a spoonful of sherry wine. And there's the plum-cake, or some nice bread and butter.'
'Which would you rather have, dear children?' said Miss Clotilda.
Neville decided in favour of bread and butter, and though Kathleen said she was too tired to eat, she succeeded in the end in getting through two good slices of the delicious home-made bread and fresh butter. Thanks to this and the cup of hot milk, her spirits began to revive, and she even got the length of smiling graciously when poor Miss Clotilda's self-reproaches grew too vehement, and assuring her aunt that she would be all right again to-morrow. Indeed, it would have required a much harder heart than childish, impulsive Kathie's to have resisted any one so affectionate and devoted as their father's sister, and already Neville's eyes sparkled with pleasure as he said to himself it felt almost like having a mother again.
Then old Martha, who had been busy up-stairs, came back to say the rooms were ready,—so far ready, that is to say, as they could be on such short notice.
'Not but that they werenearlyready,' said Miss Clotilda, as she led the way; 'we were looking for you to-morrow without fail. But it was all my fault for saying I would expect you on Thursday if I didnothear to the contrary. I should have asked you to write again.'
'But I did write,' cried Neville. 'I wrote at once, and sent on the letter to Kathie to post. You should have had it yesterday morning.'
'Yes,' said Kathie, 'I—I gave it to Miss Fraser with my note to Neville, saying, that I could be ready on Wednesday.You got my note, of course, Neville. And I—yes, I am sure I gave the one for Aunt Clotilda to be posted at the same time.'
But Aunt Clotilda had never got it. So,she, at any rate, was undeserving of all the blame Kathleen had been heaping upon her in the last few hours.
'It must be that careless old John Parry,' said Miss Clotilda. 'I must speak to him in the morning. No doubt he will be bringing the letter, and say it had been overlooked or something. And, my dear children, you must forgive all deficiencies. I had arranged all so nicely. Our neighbour, Mr. Mortimer, was to lend me his covered waggonette to go to meet you in. It is too provoking!'
There were no deficiencies, however, so far, that the children were conscious of, excepting the want of their luggage. Their rooms were charming—so quaint and country-like, with a pleasant odour of lavender and dried rose leaves pervading everything. And Miss Clotilda got out her keys and opened an old wardrobe in Kathie's room, whence she chose a little nightdress of the finest material trimmed with 'real' lace, which Martha aired at the kitchen fire by way of precaution against damp, though the whole house was so dry, she assured them, that such care was really not necessary.
'It is one of Mrs. Wynne's—one of a set that she never wore,' explained Miss Clotilda, 'and it will be just aboutright for you, Kathie dear, for, tall as you are, you will have to grow some inches yet to be up tome. Mrs. Wynne was quite one of the old school; she had linen enough laid by to have lasted her another twenty years. And Mr. Wynne-Carr wishes all such things to be considered mine,' she added, with a little sigh, 'so I am free to give you the use of it, you see.'
This was the first allusion to the great disappointment. Tired as she was, Kathie could not help thinking of it as she was falling asleep. And her dreams were haunted by fancies about the lost will—it turned up in all sorts of places. The queerest dream of all was that she found it boiling in the pan in which Martha had heated the milk!
otwithstanding her great fatigue, it was very early the next morning when Kathleen woke. At first she could not remember where she was, then a slight aching in her head and stiff pains in her legs reminded her of the long and trying journey of the day before. Now that it was over, however, it really seemed like a dream.
And one glance towards the window, of which the blind had only been half drawn down, made it almost impossible to believe in the darkness and dreariness of their arrival the night before. The rain was gone; the sun, though it could not be more than six o'clock, was shining brilliantly in an unclouded sky. From where Kathie lay she could see the fresh green leaves of the trees as they moved gently in the soft summer air; she could faintly hear the birds' busy, cheerful twitter, as they flew from branch to branch.
'Oh, I do love the country!' thought the little girl, with a sudden feeling of warmth and joyfulness in her heart. 'Ido wish—oh, how I do wish it were going to be our home!'
Then there returned to her the remembrance of Miss Clotilda's last words the night before. The cupboard door had not been quite shut, and it had gradually swung open, revealing piles of linen neatly arranged on one shelf, on another various dresses folded away, and on a lower shelf, which Kathie could see into more clearly, some rolls of canvas, bundles of Berlin wool, and in one corner two or three square-looking objects of various colours, which puzzled her as to what they could be.
'I will ask Aunt Clotilda,' she thought. 'I daresay she will show me Mrs. Wynne's things. Some of them must be very old and curious. What a funny room this is!—all corners, and the window such a queer shape! I feel quite in a hurry to see all the house. I daresay it is very nice—the hall and the staircase seemed beautifully wide last night, and the steps were so broad and shallow. But, oh dear! I wish my legs didn't ache so! Poor Aunt Clotilda! I am very sorry I called her stupid, and all that. She is so kind.'
But in the midst of all these thinkings she fell asleep again, and slept for more than two hours. When she woke she heard a cuckoo clock outside her room striking eight.
'Dear me!' she said to herself; 'how late it is! and I meant to be up so early;' and she was just beginning to get out of bed when a soft tap came to the door.
'Come in,' said Kathleen; and in came Aunt Clotilda, her kind face and gentle eyes looking brighter and younger by daylight, and behind her, Martha, carrying a tray covered with a snow-white cloth, on which was arranged a most dainty little breakfast for the young lady, whom Miss Clotilda evidently intended to pet a great deal to make up for yesterday's misfortunes.
'Oh, aunty,' said Kathie, 'I was just going to get up. I am so sorry to give you so much trouble,' and she lifted up her face to kiss Miss Clotilda.
'No, no, my dear,' her aunt replied. 'You are to rest to-day as much as you like. Neville is up, and he and I have had our breakfast. He peeped in an hour ago, and saw you were fast asleep, as I was glad to hear. It is just nine o'clock, so I thought you must be getting hungry.'
'Nine o'clock!' Kathleen repeated. 'Why, I thought the cuckoo struck eight.'
'He is a lazy bird,' said Miss Clotilda smiling. 'He is always an hour behind. I must get him put right—at least,' she went on, correcting herself, 'I meant to have done so. It is not worth while now. Now, dear, see if we have brought you what you like for your breakfast.
'IT IS DELICIOUS' SAID KATHLEEN.
'It is delicious!' said Kathleen. 'I could live on the bread and butter alone, without anything else. And honey! Oh, how lovely! Aunt Clotilda, I have never been so petted before,' she burst out, 'never in all my life. How very goodyou are! Do you know I've been more than six years at school without ever having whatIcall a holiday till now? Do kiss me, aunty.'
Kathie's heart was fairly won. There were tears in Miss Clotilda's eyes as she stooped to kiss her.
'But they are not unkind to you at school, dear?' she said. 'If you are ever ill, for instance.'
'Oh, no, they are kind enough; but it's different—not the least likehome. I can understand better already what other girls who can remember their homes meant when they said so. Philippa Harley, you know, aunty—oh no, of course you don't know; but I'll tell you about her. She has always been with her mother till lately, and she was always saying how differenthomewas.'
Martha had by this time disappeared. Miss Clotilda sat down by the bed-side, while Kathie proceeded to eat her breakfast, chattering in the intervals.
'You make me very happy, dear Kathie, when you say you have already a home feeling with me,' said Miss Clotilda—'very happy, and,' with the sigh that Kathleen was at no loss to translate, 'very unhappy.'
For a few moments neither spoke. Then Kathleen began again.
'Aunty, even though the house isn't going to be yours any more, or ours, you'll show us all the things in it, won't you?'
'Certainly, my dear. I want you to know it well, and to remember it always,' Miss Clotilda replied.
Kathie's glance just then fell on the lace frills of her night-gown, and thence strayed to the half-open cupboard.
'What are those queer-looking square things of different colours in there, aunty?' she asked.
Miss Clotilda's glance followed hers. Just at that moment Neville put his head in at the door, and asked if he might come in. His face beamed with pleasure when he saw Kathleen and his aunt chatting together so 'friendlily.'
'Those things in the cupboard?' said Miss Clotilda. 'Oh! they are some of Mrs. Wynne's pincushions. I wrapped up the new ones—one or two she had just finished, poor dear, when she was taken ill—and those are some old ones that were to have been fresh covered. I have lots of beautiful pieces of old-fashioned silk.'
'Oh, how nice!' said Kathleen. 'I hope you will let me see them, aunty. But please tell me'—
At that moment, however, Martha came to the door to say that John Williams had called for orders about fetching the trunks from the station.
'He must have some writing to show, he says,' said the old woman. 'But he's so stupid—maybe he doesn't understand.'
'It's better, perhaps, to give him a note to the station-master,' said Miss Clotilda. 'I'll come and speak to him.'
'I'll write the note,' said Neville running off.
'Aunty,' said Kathie, as Miss Clotilda was preparing to follow him, 'mayn't I get up now? I'm only a little stiff, but I'm not at all tired; and I'm in such a hurry to see the house, and the garden, and everything.'
'Very well, dear,' her aunt replied. 'Martha will get your bath ready. Can you manage with the things you have till your trunk comes this evening?'
'Oh, yes,' said Kathleen. 'My frock did not get wet at all. It's only rather crushed. And I brought my house shoes in my hand-bag. Philippa made me; she said it was such a good plan.'
'She must be a very sensible little girl,' said Miss Clotilda.
'She's a dear little girl every way,' said Kathie. 'I'm sure you'd like herdreadfully, aunty.'
She was feeling very cordial to Philippa this morning, thinking how much the little girl had tried to influence her to come to Ty-gwyn.
'But for her,' thought Kathleen, 'I'm not at all sure that I would have come. I was so sure I shouldn't like Aunt Clotilda.'
As soon as she was dressed she ran off in search of Neville, who was 'somewhere about,' old Martha told her. She found him in the garden, and together they began their explorings. By daylight the White House was far from the desolate-looking place they had fancied it the night before.It was a long house, built half-way up a gentle slope, and the entrance was, so to speak, at the back. You did not see anything of the pretty view on which looked out the principal rooms till you had crossed the large, dark-wainscoted hall, and made your way down the long corridor from whence opened the drawing-room, and library and dining-room, all large and pleasant rooms, with old-fashioned furniture, and everywhere the same faint scent, which Kathleen had noticed more strongly up-stairs, of lavender and dried rose-leaves. This part of the house was more modern than the hall and kitchens, and two other rooms, in the very old days the 'parlours,' no doubt—now called the study and the office. For the house had been added to by a Mr. Wynne, the late owner's father, a grand-uncle to David and Clotilda Powys.
'Then the old part is very old indeed, I suppose?' said Neville to his aunt, who by this time had joined them.
'Very old indeed,' she said. 'And up-stairs it seems very rambling, for there are good rooms built over the pantry and dairy and the other offices, all of which are very large. I had it all planned in my head,' she went on, 'and even Mrs. Wynne herself used often to talk of what rooms would suit you all best when it came to be your father's. Up this little stair'—for by this time they were on the first floor again—'there are two rooms which would have made such nice nurseries for little Vida, and the "office," as we call it, could easily have been turned into a very pleasant schoolroom.'
The children were delighted with it all. Up-stairs, indeed, it was precisely the sort of house to captivate young people. It was so full of mysterious passages and unexpected staircases, and corner windows and queer doors, and steps up and steps down, that it seemed larger than it really was, and of course the usual praise was pronounced upon it, that it would be 'just the place for a game at hide-and-seek.'
Then when the house had been seen, Miss Clotilda sent them out, with directions not to wander too far, as they must be home for dinner at two o'clock.
'You cannot lose your way,' she said, 'if you take a good view all round. The sea is only a mile off on two sides—west and south—and this house therefore faces the sea, though the little hill in front hides it.'
'The sea!' exclaimed Kathie. 'Why, aunty, if I had known we were so near the sea, I should have been in such a hurry to see it, I wouldn't have slept all night. Did you know, Neville?'
'I didn't know it wassonear,' said Neville.
'Go up the little hill, and then you will understand where you are,' said Miss Clotilda. 'There is the old church, too, and the ruins of the abbey beside it. You will find there is plenty to see at Hafod.'
'I don't care much for churches,' said Kathie, 'but I'd like to see the ruins.'
'Then set off at once; it is fine and sunny just now, but Idon't think the weather is very settled. Near the sea we have to expect sudden changes,' said Miss Clotilda.
The children eagerly followed her advice. They climbed up the hill, which they reached by a path through the garden, and then they were well rewarded for their trouble. The view before them was a beautiful and uncommon one. At their feet, so to speak, lay the wide-stretching ocean, sparkling and gleaming in the sunshine, and further inland stood thegrand old church and ruins, with the white cottages of the scattered village dotted about in various directions.
'How queer it is to see that great church in such a little place!' said Kathleen. 'It doesn't seem to belong to it, and yet it looks grander than if it was in the middle of a town; doesn't it, Neville?'
'I suppose there was a great monastery, or something like that, here once,' said Neville; 'perhaps before there was any village at all. I think I have read something about it. We must ask Aunt Clotilda. Isn't it a beautiful place, Kathleen? Oh, don't you wish dreadfully it was going to be our home?'
Kathleen sighed. She had not before understoodhowmuch she should wish it.
'Look there, Neville,' she said, pointing to a white thread which wound over the hills, sometimes hidden for a little, then emerging again, 'that must be the road from Frewern Bay that we came along last night. Don't we seem far away from London and from everywhere? Do you like the feeling? I think I rather do, except for poor old Phil.'
But Neville did not at once answer her. He was standing with his eyes fixed on the sea.
'I don't feel so far from papa and mamma here as in London,' he said; 'I like it for that.'
Kathleen's gaze followed his.
'Poor papa and mamma!' she said. 'Oh, Neville,howI wish we could find the will!'
They spent the rest of the morning, greatly to their own satisfaction, in visiting the ruins, and, as by a fortunate chance the door was open, the church also. It was so unlike anything they had ever seen, that even Kathie was full of admiration, and determined to learn all she could of its history.
'We must ask Aunt Clotilda to tell us all about it,' she said. 'I daresay she has books where we can read about it, too. Papa and mamma would be pleased if we—oh dear! there it comes in about that will to spoil things again! I suppose it's best not to write much about things here to them; it would only make it seem worse to them.'
'Perhaps it would,' said Neville; 'but we can say lots about Aunt Clotilda, and that will please papa and mamma. Oh, Kathie,don'tyou like her?'
Kathie grew rather red.
'Yes,' she said, 'I do. I like her awfully. Iloveher, Neville, and—and—I'm very sorry I called her stupid, and all that.'
'Dear Kathie,' said Neville, 'you didn't know her.'
'Well, no more did you,' said Kathleen; 'but you're much better than me, Neville. So is Philippa.'
'Dear Kathie,' said Neville again, 'it's only that you've not had mamma with you, or anybody like that. I was older than you, you know, when they left us. And Philippa's always had her mother. But now you have aunty.'
'Yes,' said Kathleen; but she sighed as she said it.
They turned to go home again, for they had not yet half explored the garden, which bid fair to be quite as delightful as the house. A little door in the wall was standing half open, and peeping in, they saw that it led by a footpath to the front door. There Miss Clotilda was standing talking to a funny-looking old man with a canvas bag slung over his back. Miss Clotilda seemed rather annoyed, and was speaking very earnestly.
'You are sure, then, John Parry, quite sure, you have not dropped or left it at the wrong house, or anything like that?'
The old man only smiled amiably in a sort of superior way.
'Sure, miss? To be sure I am. You'll see miss, the letter has never been posted. Good-day to you, miss. Indeed, I am glad the young gentleman and lady's got safe here;' and he trotted off.
'It's about your letter, Neville,' said his aunt. 'I was certain it would turn up this morning. But it has not come, and it makes me uneasy. Just think, if one of your dear papa's letters was to be lost. I have got fidgety about letters and papers, I suppose.'
'It's very queer,' said Neville. 'All our other letters have come quite rightly.'
'Yes,' said Miss Clotilda. 'However, my dears, as I've got you safe here I must not grumble.'
She went back into the house to fetch her garden-hat, in which, Kathie could not help whispering to Neville, shedidlook a funny old dear. For the hat was about the size of a small clothes-basket, and Miss Clotilda despised all such invisible modes of fastening as elastic and hat-pins. She secured her head-dress with a good honest pair of black ribbon strings, firmly tied, for Ty-gwyn was a blowy place, as might have been expected from its nearness to the sea.
The three spent the rest of the morning most happily in the garden, visiting, too, the now disused dairy, and the poultry-yard, where Miss Clotilda's cocks and hens, in blissful ignorance of the fate before them, were clucking and pecking about.
'I must fatten and kill them all off before the autumn,' she said; 'at least, nearly all. I could not have the heart to kill my special pets. I will give some to the neighbours.'
'Aunty,' said Kathleen, as they were returning to the house, 'there is something I wanted to ask you, and I can't remember what it is.'
Miss Clotilda's memory could not help her.
'Perhaps you will think of it afterwards,' she said.
And probably Kathie would have done so, had it not happened that her aunt had that morning, while the children were out, closed and locked the old cupboard in the little girl's room. So there was nothing to remind her of what she had been on the point of asking Miss Clotilda about Mrs. Wynne's old pincushions.
he next two or three days passed most pleasantly. The weather, as if to make up for its bad behaviour on the day of their journey, was particularly fine, and the children were out from morning till night. Old Martha thought privately to herself that it was a good thing the neighbours were so kind, for they were even 'better than their word,' in sending all sorts of good things to Ty-gwyn for the Captain's children, as Neville and Kathleen's appetites, thanks to the change of air and the sea breezes, were really rather alarming. And Miss Clotilda was so perfectly happy to see them both so bright and well, that she tried to banish all painful thoughts as much as she could.
Still they werethere; and when the poor lady was alone in her room at night, it was often more than she could do to restrain her tears. For the happier the children were, the more she learned to love them, the more bitterly, as was natural, did she feel the disappointment of not being able tohope to see much more of them. But she said little or nothing of her feelings, and the children—Kathie especially—little suspected their depth. Kathie was living entirely in the present; she but rarely gave a thought to the ideas Philippa had suggested. And Neville, though less carelessly light-hearted and forgetful, was slower both of thought and speech. He could see nothing to be done, and for some time he rather shrank from coming upon the subject with his aunt.
It came to be spoken of at last, however, and this was how it happened.
One morning, about the fourth or fifth of their visit, old John Parry, with a great air of importance, as if he were doing her a special service, handed to Kathleen a rather fat letter, addressed to herself.
'You see, miss, to be sure I never make no mistakes,' he said.
For he was quite aware that Miss Clotilda still in her heart, somehow or other, associated him with the mysterious loss of Neville's letter, and he wished to keep up his dignity in the eyes of the stranger young lady.
'Oh yes, thank you,' said Kathie, not quite knowing what else to say. For in London one's personal acquaintance with the postman—or postmen, rather—is necessarily of the slightest.
'What a comical old fellow he is!' she said to herself, as she ran off. 'I daresay he did lose the letter, after all. Howamused Phil would be at the people here, and the funny way they talk! Dear old Phil! I wonder what she has got to say, and what she has written such a long letter about?' For the moment she got it in her hand she recognised little Philippa's careful, childish handwriting on the envelope.
'Aren't you coming out, Kathie?' Neville called out from some mysterious depths, where he was absorbed in arranging his fishing-tackle.
'Not yet. I've got a long letter from Philippa. You'll find me in the library if you look in in a few minutes.'