Chapter Ten.
The Credit of the Farm.
“Many littles make a mickle.”—Scotch Proverb.
She was awakened the next morning by trampling noises in the stable below, and starting up could not at first make out where she was. The sun was shining through a rift in the loft door, Tib was gone, cocks were crowing outside, all the world was up and busy. She could hear Ben’s gruff voice and the clanking of chains and harness, and soon he and the three horses had left the stable and gone out to their day’s work. It must be late, therefore, and she must lose no time in presenting herself at the house. Perhaps it might be possible, she thought, to get up to her attic without seeing anyone, and tidy herself a bit first; she should then have more courage to face her aunt, for at present with her rough hair and pieces of hay and straw clinging to her clothes, she felt like some little stray wanderer. She approached the house cautiously and peeped in at the back door before entering, to see who was in the kitchen. Bella was there talking to Molly, whose broad red face was thrust eagerly forward as though she were listening to something interesting. They were indeed so deeply engaged that Lilac felt sure they would not notice her, and she took courage and went in.
“It’s a mercy she wasn’t killed,” Molly was saying. “She’s no light weight to fall, isn’t the missus.”
“It’s completely upset me,” said Bella in a faint voice, with one hand on her heart. “I tremble all over still.”
“And to think,” said Molly, “as it was only yesterday I said to myself, ‘I’ll darn that carpet before I’m an hour older’.”
“Well, it’s a pity you didn’t,” said Bella sharply; “just like your careless ways.”
Molly shook her head.
“’Twasn’t to be,” she said. “’Twasn’t for nothing that I spilt the salt twice, and dreamt of water.”
“The doctor says it’s a bad sprain,” continued Bella; “and it’s likely she’ll be laid up for a month. Perfect rest’s the only thing.”
“I had a cousin,” said Molly triumphantly, “what had a similar accident. A heavy woman she was, like the missus in build. Information set in with her and she died almost immediate.”
Lilac did not wait to hear more; she made her escape safely to her attic, and soon afterwards found Agnetta and learnt from her the history of the accident. Mrs Greenways had had a bad fall; she had caught her foot in a hole in the carpet and twisted her ankle, and the doctor said it was a wonder she had not broken any bones. Everyone in the house had so much to say, and was so excited about this misfortune, that Lilac’s little adventure was passed over without notice, and the scolding she had dreaded did not come at all. Poor Mrs Greenways had other things to think of as she lay groaning on the sofa, partly with pain and partly at the prospect before her. To be laid up a month! It was easy for the doctor to talk, but what would become of things? Who would look after Molly? Who would see to the dairy? It would all go to rack and ruin, and she must lie here idle and look on. Her husband stood by trying to give comfort, but every word he said only seemed to make matters worse.
“Why, there’s Bella now,” he suggested; “she ought to be able to take your place for a bit.”
“And that just shows how much you know about the indoors work, Greenways,” said his wife fretfully; “to talk of Bella! Why, I’d as soon trust the dairy to Peter’s cat as Bella—partikler now she’s got that young Buckle in her head. She don’t know cream from buttermilk.”
“Why, then, you must just leave the butter to Molly as usual, and let the girls see after the rest,” said Mr Greenways soothingly.
“Oh, it’s no use talking like that,” said his wife impatiently; “it’s only aggravating to hear you. I suppose you think things are done in the house without heads or hands either. Girls indeed! There’s Agnetta, knows no more nor a baby, and only that little bit of a Lilac as can put her hand to anything.”
Finding his efforts useless, Mr Greenways shrugged his shoulders and went out, leaving his wife alone with her perplexities.
The more she thought them over the worse they seemed. To whom could she trust whilst she was helpless? Who would see that the butter was ready and fit for market? Not Bella, not Agnetta, and certainly not Molly. Really and truly there was only that little bit of a Lilac, as she called her, to depend on—she would do her work just as well whether she were overlooked or not, Mrs Greenways felt sure. It was no use to shut her eyes to it any longer, Lilac White was not a burden but a support, not useless but valuable, only a child, but more dependable than many people of twice her years. It was bitter to poor Mrs Greenways to acknowledge this, even to herself, for the old jealousy was still strong within her.
“I s’pose,” she said with a groan, “there was something in Mary White’s upbringing after all. I’m not agoin’ to own up to it, though, afore other folks.”
When a little later Lilac was told that her aunt wanted her, she thought that the scolding had come at last, and went prepared to bear it as well as she could. It was, however, for a surprisingly different purpose.
“Look here, Lilac,” said Mrs Greenways carelessly, “you’ve been a good deal in the dairy lately, and you ought to have picked up a lot about it.”
“I can make the butter all myself, Aunt,” replied Lilac, “without Molly touching it.”
“Well, I hope you’re thankful for such a chance of learning,” said Mrs Greenways; “not but what you’re a good child enough, I’ve nothing to say against you. But what I want to say is this: Molly can’t do everything while I’m laid by, and I think I shall take her from the dairy-work altogether, and let you do it.”
Lilac’s eyes shone with delight. Her aunt spoke as though she were bestowing a favour, and she felt it indeed to be such.
“Oh! thank you, Aunt,” she cried. “I’m quite sure as how I can do it, and I like it ever so much.”
“With Agnetta to help you I dessay you’ll get through with it,” said Mrs Greenways graciously, and so the matter was settled. Lilac was dairymaid! No longer a little household drudge, called hither and thither to do everyone’s work, but an important person with a business and position of her own. What an honour it was! There was only one drawback—there was no mother to rejoice with her, or to understand how glad she felt about it. Lilac was obliged to keep her exultation to herself. She would have liked to tell Peter of her advancement, but just now he was at work on some distant part of the farm, and she saw him very seldom, for her new office kept her more within doors than usual. The good-natured Molly was, however, delighted with the change, and full of wonder at Lilac’s cleverness.
“It’s really wonderful,” she said; “and what beats me is that it allus turns out the same.”
With this praise Lilac had to be content, and she busied herself earnestly in her own little corner with increasing pride in her work. Sometimes, it is true, she looked enviously at Agnetta, who seemed to have nothing to do but enjoy herself after her own fashion. Since Lenham fête Bella and she had had some confidential joke together, which they carried on by meaning nods and winks and mysterious references to “Charlie.” They were also more than ever engaged in altering their dresses and trimming their hats, and although Lilac was kept completely outside all this, she soon began to connect it with the visits of young Mr Buckle. She thought it a little unkind of Agnetta not to let her into the secret, and it was dull work to hear so much laughter going on without ever joining in it; but very soon she knew what it all meant.
“Heard the news?” cried Agnetta, rushing into the dairy, then, without waiting for an answer, “Bella’s goin’ to get married. Guess who to?”
“Young Mr Buckle,” said Lilac without a moment’s hesitation.
“As soon as ever Ma’s about again the wedding’s to be,” said Agnetta exultingly. “I’m to be bridesmaid, and p’r’aps Charlotte Smith as well.” Lilac, who had stopped her scrubbing to listen, now went on with it, and Agnetta looked down at her kneeling figure with some contempt.
“What a lot of trouble you take over it!” she said. “Molly used to do it in half the time.”
“If I ain’t careful,” answered Lilac, “the butter’d get a taste.”
“I’ll help you a bit,” said her cousin condescendingly. “I’ll rinse these pans for you.”
Lilac was glad to have Agnetta’s company, for she wanted to hear all about Bella’s wedding; but Agnetta’s help she was not so anxious for, because she usually had to do the work all over again. Agnetta’s idea of excellence was to get through her work quickly, to make it look well outside, to polish the part that showed and leave the rest undone. Speed and show had always been the things desired in the household at Orchards Farm—not what was good but what looked good, and could be had at small expense and labour. Beneath the smart clothing which Mrs Greenways and her daughters displayed on Sundays, strange discoveries might have been made. Rents fastened up with pins, stains hidden by stylish scarves and mantles, stockings unmended, boots trodden down or in holes. A feather in the hat, a bangle on the arm, and a bunched-up dress made up for these deficiencies. “If it don’t show it don’t matter,” Bella was accustomed to say. Agnetta paused to rest after about two minutes.
“Bella won’t have nothing of this sort to do after she’s married,” she said. “Charlie says she needn’t stir a finger, not unless she likes. She’ll be able to sit with her hands before her just like a lady.”
“I shouldn’t care about being a lady if that’s what I had to do,” said Lilac. “I should think it would be dull. I’d rather see after the farm, if I was Bella.”
“You don’t mean to tell me you like work?” said Agnetta, staring. “You wouldn’t do it, not if you weren’t obliged? ’Tain’t natural.”
“I like some,” said Lilac. “I like the dairy work and I like feeding the poultry. And I want to learn to milk, if Ben’ll teach me. And in the spring I mean to try and get ever such a lot of early ducks.”
“Well, I hate all that,” said Agnetta. “Now, if I could choose I wouldn’t live on a farm at all. I’d have lots of servants, and silk gownds and gold bracelets and broaches, and satting furniture, and a carridge to drive in every day. An’ I’d lie in bed ever so late in the mornings and always do what I liked.”
Time went on and Mrs Greenway’s ankle got better, so that although still lame she was able to hobble about with a stick, and find out Molly’s shortcomings much as usual. During her illness she had relied a good deal on Lilac and softened in her manner towards her, but now the old feeling of jealousy came back, and she found it impossible to praise her for the excellence of the dairy-work. “I can’t somehow bring my tongue to it,” she said to herself; “and the better she behaves the less I can do it.” One day the farmer came back from Lenham in a good humour.
“Benson asked if we’d got a new dairymaid,” he said to his wife; “the butter’s always good now. Which of ’em does it?”
“Oh,” said Mrs Greenways carelessly, “the girls manage it between ’em, and I look it over afore it goes.”
Lilac heard it, for she had come into the room unnoticed, and for a second she stood still, uncertain whether to speak, fixing a reproachful gaze on her aunt. What a shame it was! Was this her reward for all her patience and hard work? Never a word of praise, never even the credit of what she did! On her lips were some eager angry words, but she did not utter them. She turned and ran upstairs to her own little attic. Her heart was full; she could see no reason for this injustice: it was very, very hard. What would they do, she went on to think, if she left the butter to Bella and Agnetta to manage between them? What would her aunt say then?
Trembling with indignation she sat down on her bed and buried her face in her hands. At first she was too angry to cry, but soon she felt so lonely, with such a great longing for a word of comfort and kindness, that the tears came fast. After that she felt a little better, rubbed her eyes on her pinafore, and looked up at the small window through which there streamed some bright rays of the afternoon sun. What was it that lighted the room with such a glory? Not the sunshine alone. It rested on something in the window, which stood out in gorgeous splendour from the white bareness of its surroundings—the cactus had bloomed! Yes, the cactus had really burst into two blossoms, of such size and brilliancy that with the sunlight upon them they were positively dazzling to behold. Lilac sat and blinked her red eyes at them in admiration and wonder. She had watched the two buds with tender interest, and feared they would never unfold themselves. Now they had done it, and how beautiful they were! How Mother would have liked them!
Her next thought was, as she went closer to examine them, that she must tell Peter. She remembered now, that, occupied with her own affairs and interests, she had never thanked him for two kind things he had done. She was quite sure that he had got the flowers for her on May Day, and had brought the cactus down from the cottage, yet she had said nothing. How ungrateful she had been! She knew now how hard it was not to be thanked for one’s services. Did Peter mind? He must be pretty well used to it, for certainly no one ever thanked him for anything, and as for praise that was out of the question. If, as Uncle Joshua had said, he was the prop of the house, it was taken for granted, and no one thought of saying, “Well done, Peter!”
Yet he never complained. He went patiently on in his dull way, keeping his pains and troubles to himself. How seldom his face was brightened by pleasure, and yet Lilac remembered when he had been talking to her about his animals or farming matters, that she had seen it change wonderfully. Some inner feeling had beamed out from it, and for a few minutes Peter was a different creature. It was a pity that he did not always look like that; no one at such times could call him stupid or ugly. “Anyway,” concluded Lilac, “he’s been kind, and I’ll thank him as soon as ever I can.”
Her sympathy for Peter made her own trouble seem less, and she went downstairs cheerfully with her mind bent on managing a little talk with him as soon as possible. Supper-time would not do, because Bella and Agnetta were there, and afterwards Peter was so sleepy. It must be to-morrow. As it happened things turned out fortunately for Lilac, and required no effort on her part, for Mrs Greenways discovered the next day that someone must do some shopping in Lenham. There were things wanted that Dimbleby did not keep, and the choice of which could not be trusted to a man.
“I wonder,” she said, “if I could make shift to get into the cart—but if I did I couldn’t never get in and out at the shops.”
She looked appealingly at her elder daughter.
“The cart’s going in with the butter,” she added.
But Bella was not inclined to take the hint.
“You don’t catch me driving into Lenham with the cart full of butter and eggs and such,” she said. “Whatever’d Charlie say? Why shouldn’t Lilac go? She’s sharp enough.”
There seemed no reason against this, and it was accordingly settled that Lilac should be entrusted with Mrs Greenways’ commissions. As she received them, her mind was so full of the dazzling prospect of driving into Lenham with the butter that it was almost impossible to bring it to bear on anything else. It would be like going into the world. Only once in her whole life had she been there before, and that was when her mother had taken her long ago. She was quite a little child then, but she remembered the look of it still, and what a grand place she had thought it, with its broad market square and shops and so many people about.
When her aunt had finished her list, which was a very long one, Bella was ready with her wants, which were even more puzzling.
“I want this ribbon matched,” she said, “and I want a bonnet shape. It mustn’t be too high in the crown nor yet too broad in the brim, and it mustn’t be like the one Charlotte Smith’s got now. If you can’t match the ribbon exactly you must get me another shade. A kind of a sap green, I think—but it must be something uncommon. And you might ask at Jones’s what’s being worn in hats now—feathers or artificials. Oh, and I want some cream lace, not more than sixpence a yard, a good striking pattern, and as deep as you can get for the money.” Agnetta having added to this two ounces of coconut rock and a threepenny bottle of scent, Lilac was allowed to get ready for her expedition. The cart was waiting in the yard with the baskets packed in at the back, and Ben was buckling the last strap of the harness. She expected that he was going with her, and it was quite a pleasant surprise when Peter came out of the house with a whip in his hand and took the reins. Nothing could have happened more fortunately, she thought to herself as they drove out of the gate, for now there would be no difficulty at all in saying what she had on her mind. This and the excitement of the journey itself put her in excellent spirits, so that though some people might have called the road to Lenham dull and flat, it was full of charms to Lilac. It was indeed more lively than usual, for it was market day, and as they jogged along at an easy pace they were constantly greeted by acquaintances all bent in the same direction. Some of these were on foot and others in all kinds of vehicles, from a wagon to a donkey cart. Mr Buckle presently dashed by them in a smart gig, and called out, “How’s yourself, Peter?” as he passed; and farther on they overtook Mrs Pinhorn actively striding along in her well-known checked shawl.
Peter answered all greetings in the same manner—a wag of the head towards the right shoulder—but Lilac felt so proud and pleased to be going to Lenham with her own butter that she sat up very straight, and smiled and nodded heartily to those she knew. It seemed a wonderfully short journey, and she saw the spire of Lenham church in the distance before she had said one word to Peter, or he had broken silence except to speak to his horse. This did not disturb her, for she was used to his ways now, and she made up her mind that she would put off any attempt at conversation until their return. And here they were at Lenham, rattling over the round stones with which the marketplace was paved. It was full of stalls, crowded together so closely that there was scarcely room for all the people passing up and down between them. They struggled along, jostling each other, pushing their way with great baskets on their arms, and making a confusion of noises. Scolding, laughter, shouting filled the air, mixed up with the clatter of crockery, cracking of whips, and the shrill cries of the market women. Such a turmoil Lilac had never heard, and it was almost a relief when Peter turned a little away from it and drew up at the door of Benson’s shop, where the butter was to be left. It was a large and important shop, and though the entrance was down a narrow street it had two great windows facing the market square, and there was a constant stream of people bustling in and out. Lilac’s heart beat fast with excitement. If she had known that the butter was to be displayed in such a grand beautiful place as this, and seen by so many folks, she would hardly have dared to undertake it. Sudden fear seized her that it might not be so good as usual this time: there was perhaps some fault in the making-up, some failure in the colour, although she had thought it looked all right when she packed up at the farm. She followed Peter into the shop with quite a tremor, and was glad when she saw Mr Benson could not attend to them just yet, for he and his boy were both deeply engaged in attending to customers. Lilac had plenty of time to look round her. Her eye immediately fell on some rolls of butter on the counter, and she lifted a corner of the cloth which covered her own and gave an anxious peep at it, then nudged Peter and looked up at him for sympathy.
“It’s a better colour nor that yonder,” she whispered.
Peter stood stolidly unconscious of her excitement, but he turned his quiet eyes upon the eager face lifted to his, and nodded kindly. Mr Benson caught sight of him and bustled up.
“Morning, Peter,” he said briskly. “How’s your mother?”
“Middling, thank you,” said Peter, and without any further words he pointed at the basket on the counter.
“Butter—eh?” said the grocer. “Well, I hope it’s as good as the last.” He unpacked the basket and proceeded to weigh the butter, talking all the time.
“It’s an odd thing to me how your butter varies. Now, the last month it’s been as good again as it used to be. Of course in the winter there will be a difference because of the feed, I can understand that; but I can’t see why it shouldn’t be always the same in the summer. I don’t mind telling you,” he continued, leaning forward and speaking in a confidential tone, “that I’d made up my mind at one time to give it up. People won’t buy inferior butter, and I don’t blame ’em.”
“It’s good this time, anyhow,” said Peter.
“It’s prime,” said Mr Benson. “Is it the cows now, that you’ve got new, or is it the dairymaid?”
“The cows isn’t new, nor yet the dairymaid,” said Peter.
“Well, whichever it is,” said the grocer, “the credit of the farm’s coming back. Orchards Farm always had a name for its dairy in the old days. I remember my father talking of it when I was a boy.”
Mrs Pinhorn, who had been standing near during this conversation, now struck sharply in:
“They do say there was a brownie at the farm in those days, but when it got into other hands he was angered and quitted.”
“That’s a curious superstition, ma’am,” said the grocer politely.
“There’s folks in Danecross who give credit to it still,” continued Mrs Pinhorn. “Old Grannie Dunch’ll tell you ever so many tales about the brownie and his goings-on.”
“Well, if we didn’t live, so to say, within the pale of civilisation,” said the grocer, sticking his thumbs in his waistcoat pockets, “we might think you’d got him back again at the farm. What do you say to that, Peter?”
Everyone knew that Peter believed in all sorts of crazy things, and when Mr Benson put this jocular question to him several people turned to see how he took it.
Lilac looked eagerly up at him also, for she had a faint hope that he might somehow know that she was dairymaid, and would tell them so. That would be a triumph indeed. At any rate he would stop all this silly talk about the brownie. She had heard Grannie Dunch’s stories scores of times, and they were very interesting, but as to believing them—Lilac felt far above such folly, and held them all in equal contempt, whether they were of charms, ghosts, brownies, or other spirits. It was therefore with dismay that she saw Peter’s face get redder and redder under the general gaze, and heard him instead of speaking up only mutter, “I don’t know nothing about it.”
Moved by indignation at such foolishness, and at the mocking expression an Mr Benson’s round face, she ventured to give Peter’s sleeve a sharp pull. No more words came, he only shuffled his feet uneasily and showed an evident desire to get out of the shop.
“Well, well,” said the grocer, turning his attention to some money he was counting out of a drawer, “never you mind, Peter. If you’ve got him you’d better keep him, for he knows how to make good butter at any rate.”
Everyone laughed, as they always did at Mr Benson’s speeches, and in the midst of it Peter gathered up his money and left the shop with Lilac. She felt so ruffled and vexed by what had passed, that she could hardly attend to his directions as he pointed out the different shops she had to go to. They were an ironmonger’s, a linendraper’s, and a china shop, and in the last he told her she must wait until he came to fetch her with the cart in about an hour’s time. Lilac stood for a moment looking after him as he drove away to put up his horse at the inn. She was angry with Mr Benson, angry with the people who had laughed, and angry with Peter. No wonder folks thought him half-silly when he looked like that. And yet he knew twice as much as all of ’em put together. Only that morning when Sober had cut his foot badly with broken glass, it was Peter with his clumsy-looking gentle fingers who had known how to stop the bleeding and bind up the wound in the best way. But in spite of all this he could stand like a gaby and let folks make a laughing-stock of him? It was so provoking to remember how silly he had looked, that it was only by a determined effort that Lilac could get it out of her head, and bend her attention on Bella’s ribbons and her aunt’s pots and pans. When she had once began her shopping, however, she found it took all her thoughts, and it was not till she was seated in the china shop, her business finished, and her parcels disposed round her, that the scene came back to her again. Could it be possible that Peter put any faith in such nonsensical tales?
Grannie Dunch believed them; but then she was very ignorant, over ninety years old, and had never been to school. When Grannie Dunch was young perhaps folks did believe such things, and she had never been taught better; there were excuses for her. On one point Lilac was determined. Peter’s mind should be cleared up as to who made the butter. What had Mr Benson said about it? “The credit of the farm’s coming back.” She repeated the words to herself in a whisper. What a grand thing if she, Lilac White, had helped to bring back the credit of the farm!
At this point in her reflections the white horse appeared at the door, and Lilac and all her belongings were lifted up into the cart. Very soon they were out of the noisy stony streets of Lenham, and on the quiet country road again. She took a side glance at her companion. He looked undisturbed, with his eyes fixed placidly on the horse’s ears, and had evidently nothing more on his mind than to sit quietly there until they reached home. It made Lilac feel quite cross, and she gave him a sharp little nudge with her elbow to make him attend to what she had to say.
“Why ever did you let ’em go on so silly about the brownie?” she said. “You looked for all the world as if you believed in it.”
Peter flicked his horse thoughtfully.
“There’s a many cur’ous things in the world,” he said; “cur’ouser than that.”
“There ain’t no such things as brownies, though,” said Lilac, with decision; “nor yet ghosts, nor yet witches, nor yet any of them things as Grannie Dunch tells about.”
Peter was silent.
“Is there?” she repeated with another nudge of the elbow.
“I don’t says as there is,” he answered slowly.
“Of course not!” exclaimed Lilac triumphantly.
“And I don’t say as there isn’t,” finished Peter in exactly the same voice.
This unexpected conclusion quite took Lilac’s breath away. She stared speechlessly at her cousin, and he presently went on in a reflective tone with his eyes still fixed on the horse’s ears:
“It’s been a wonderful lucky year, there’s no denying. Hay turned out well, corn’s going to be good. More eggs, more milk, better butter, bees swarmed early.”
“But,” put in Lilac, “Aunt sprained her ankle, and the colt went lame, and you had to sell None-so-pretty. That wasn’t lucky. Why didn’t the brownie hinder that?”
Peter shook his head.
“I don’t say as there is a brownie at the farm,” he said.
“But you think he helps make the butter,” said Lilac scornfully.
Peter turned his eyes upon his companion; her face was hidden from him by her sunbonnet, but her slender form and the sound of her voice seemed both to quiver with indignation and contempt.
“Well, then, who does?” he asked.
But Lilac only held her head up higher and kept a dignified silence; she was thoroughly put out with Peter, and if he was so silly it really was no use to talk to him.
Conscious that he was in disgrace, Peter fidgeted uneasily with his reins, whipped his horse, and cast some almost frightened glances over his shoulder at the silent little figure beside him, then he coughed several times, and finally, with an effort which seemed to make his face broader and redder every minute, began to speak:
“I’d sooner plough a field than talk any day, but but I’ll tell you something if I can put it together. Words is so hard to frame, so as to say what you mean. Maybe you’ll only think me stupider after I’m done, but this is how it was—”
He stopped short, and Lilac said gently and encouragingly, “How was it, Peter?”
“I’ve had a sort of a queer feeling lately that there’s something different at the farm. Something that runs through everything, as you might say. The beasts do their work as well again, and the sun shines brighter, and the flowers bloom prettier, and there’s a kind of a pleasantness about the place. I can’t set it down to anything, any more than I know why the sky’s blue, but it’s there all the same. So I thought over it a deal, and one day I was up in the High field, and all of a sudden it rapped into my head what Grannie Dunch says about the brownie as used to work at the farm. ‘Maybe,’ I says to myself, ‘he’s come back.’ So I didn’t say nothing, but I took notice, and things went on getting better, and I got to feel there was someone there helping on the work—but I wasn’t not to say certain sure it was the brownie, till one night—”
“When?” said Lilac eagerly as Peter paused.
“It was last Saint Barnaby’s, and I’d been up to Cuddingham with None-so-pretty. It was late when I got back, and I remembered I hadn’t locked the stable door, and I went across the yard to do it—”
“Well?” said Lilac with breathless interest.
“So as I went, it was most as light as day, and I saw as plain as could be something flit in at the stable door. ’Twasn’t so big as a man, nor so small as a boy, and its head was white. So then I thought, ‘Surely ’tis the brownie, for night’s his working time,’ and I’d half a mind to take a peep and see him at it. But they say if you look him in the face he’ll quit, so I just locked the door and left him there. When Benson talked that way about the credit of the farm, I knew who we’d got to thank. Howsomever,” added Peter seriously, “you mustn’t thank him, nor yet pay him, else he’ll spite you instead of working for you.”
As he finished his story he turned to his cousin a face beaming with the most childlike faith; but it suddenly clouded with disappointment, for Lilac, no longer gravely attentive, was laughing heartily.
“I thought maybe you’d laugh at me,” he said, turning his head away ashamed.
Lilac checked her laughter. “Here’s a riddle,” she said. “The brownie you locked into the stable that night always makes the butter. He isn’t never thanked nor yet paid, but you’ve looked him in the face scores of times.”
Peter gazed blankly at her.
“You’re doing of it now!” she cried with a chuckle of delight; “you’re looking at the brownie now! Why, you great goose, it’s me as has made the butter this ever so long, and it was me as was in the stable on Saint Barnaby’s!”
It was only by very slow degrees that Peter could turn his mind from the brownie, on whom it had been fixed for weeks past, to take in this new and astonishing idea. Even when Lilac had told her story many times, and explained every detail of how she had learnt to be dairymaid, he broke out again:
“But how could you do it? You didn’t know before you came, and there’s Bella and Agnetta was born on the farm, and doesn’t know now. Wonderful quick you must be, surely. And so little as you are—and quiet,” he went on, staring at his cousin. “You don’t make no more clatter nor fuss than a field-mouse.”
“’Tisn’t only noisy big things as is useful,” said Lilac with some pride.
“It’s harder to believe than the brownie,” went on Peter, shaking his head; “a deal more cur’ous. I thought I had got hold of him, but I don’t seem to understand this at all.”
He fell into deep thought, shaking his head at intervals, and it was not until the farm was in sight that he broke silence again.
“The smallest person in the farm,” he said slowly, “has brought back the credit of the farm. It’s downright amazing. I’m not agoin’ to say ‘thank you,’ though,” he added with a smile as they drove in at the gate.
A sudden thought flashed into Lilac’s mind. “Oh, Peter,” she cried, “the flowers was lovely on May Day, and the cactus is blooming beautiful! Was it the brownie as sent ’em, do you think?”
Peter made no reply to this, and his face was hidden, for he was plunging down to collect the parcels in the back of the cart. Lilac laughed as she ran into the house. What a funny one he was surely, and what a fine day’s holiday she had been having!