CHAPTER XIV.
“BREAD AND SALT.”
thought Mrs. Markham looked somewhat displeased.
“We must ask your mother’s permission, Master Rolf;” then, turning to her, “I hope you will allow him to go with us this afternoon,” for, in spite of his rude ways, I felt full of pity for the lonely little boy; he seemed to have no playfellows except poor Judson, who was a low-spirited, overworked young woman. It must have been dreary for him to be in a household of grown-up people, who all voted him a plague and took no trouble to amuse him. Spoilt children are seldom happy ones; and it did not need a second look at Rolf’s pale, sickly face to read the lines of discontent and peevishness.
“I am rather surprised that Miss Fenton should make such a request after her treatment of my boy yesterday,” returned Mrs. Markham, ungraciously. I think if she had dared to contradict Rolf she would not have given her consent, but a sulky look was already clouding his face.
“Never mind about that,” he said, impatiently; “Miss Fenton is going to make the tail for my kite; and I am going out with her this afternoon, and I shall and will go.”
“Master Rolf, that is not the way to answer your mother.”
“You may leave me to rebuke my own child,” she observed, coldly. “Very well, Rolf; you may go, but you need not be so cross about it. I came to see about the children, Miss Fenton; I think it is too hot for them to go on the beach this afternoon.”
“Joyce will wear her sun-bonnet; and there is a nice breeze,” I returned, somewhat ruffled by this interference. I fancy she did it to aggravate me, for there was no fault to be found with the weather, and I knew my mistress always left these things to me.
She remained for a few minutes making little suggestions about the ventilation and the nursery arrangements, which I bore as patiently as I could, though the harsh, metallic voice irritated me dreadfully. I did not wish to be disrespectful to Mrs. Markham, but I did not feel bound to obey her orders, and I knew I should tell her so if any grave dispute arose between us. I was rather relieved when she left the room at last, taking Rolf with her; but a few minutes afterwards Judson glided in on tiptoe.
“Oh, Miss Fenton,” she said, in a pathetic voice, “I am so grateful to you for promising to take charge of Master Rolf this afternoon; I thought there would be such a piece of work; Master Rolf thought he was going out in the carriage, and Mrs. Markham has friends and cannot find room for him; and what I should have done with him I hardly know, all the afternoon.”
“If Rolf is good I have no objection to take charge of him; I am very fond of children, only they must be obedient.”
“Obedience is an unknown word to Master Rolf,” returned Judson, lugubriously; “times out of number that boy has got me into trouble, just because he would not mind a word I said. Why, he got the colonel’s sword out of his mother’s wardrobe one day and nearly killed himself, and another morning he fired off his grandfather’s gun, that had been loaded by mistake, and shot poor old Pincher, not that he meant to do it; he was aiming at one of the pheasants.”
This was not pleasant to hear, and I inwardly resolved not to trust the children out of my sight; for who could tell what unforeseen accident might arise from Rolf’s recklessness?
“Mrs. Markham blames me for all that happens,” went on Judson, “and Master Rolf knows that, and there is no checking him; he is not nearly so mischievous when his mother is near, because she loses patience, and has more than once boxed his ears soundly. She spoils him dreadfully, and he takes liberties with her as no child ought to take with a parent; but now and then, when he has aggravated her past bearing, I have known her punish him pretty sharply.”
This was sad; injudicious indulgence, and injudicious severity. Who could wonder if the results were unsatisfactory?
“No one dares to say a word to him except his mother,” went on Judson; “it is just her temper when she flies out at him; but she worships the very ground he walks on. If his finger aches she thinks he is going to die, and the house is in an uproar; and yet when he is ill he is as contrary as possible, and will not take a thing from her, for all her petting and coaxing.”
It seemed a relief to Judson to pour out her woes, and I could hardly refuse to listen to her. She was evidently attached to her mistress, with whom she had lived since her marriage; but she was one of those helpless beings who are made the butt of other people’s wills and passions; she had no dignity of mind to repel even childish impertinence; her nervous, vacillating ways would only increase Rolf’s tyrannical nature.
I could understand how a high-spirited boy would resist any command enforced by that plaintive voice. A few quick concise words would influence him more than a torrent of feeble reproaches from Judson. He was not without generous impulses—what English boy is?—he had grasped at once my meaning when I rebuked him for his want of gentlemanly honour, but he was precocious and over-bearing, and had lived too much in the society of grown-up people.
My knowledge of the world was not great, but I know how deficient in reticence many grown-up people are in the presence of children; the stream of talk that is poured into the little pitchers is often defiled with low conventional views of duty, and painfully uncharitable remarks; the pure mirror of a child’s mind—and how pure that mind often is!—is frequently sullied by some unchristian observations from lips that to the child are half divine. “See how ye offend one of these little ones,” was the Master’s warning; and yet if we could look into one of these young minds, we should often see its placid serenity broken up and ruffled by some unthinking speech, flung like a pitiless pebble into its brightness.
After all, we spent a pleasant afternoon on the beach, and I do not believe the children enjoyed themselves more than Hannah and I.
It was not a long walk to the shore if we had followed the direct route; but I wanted to see the pretty village of Netherton more closely; so we walked past the church and down the main street, and turned off by the row of bungalows that skirted the cliff, and, crossing the cornfields, made our way down a narrow cutting to a little strip of shingly beach, with its border of yellow sands washed by the summer surf. I would willingly have sat under the breakwater all the afternoon, watching the baby waves lapping upon the sands, and laying driblets of brown and green seaweed on the shore, while Reggie brought me wet pebbles and little dried up crabs and empty mussel shells, but Rolf wanted me to help with his sand castle; indeed, we were all pressed into the service; even Reggie dug up tiny dabs of sand and flung it at us, under the belief that he was helping too.
What a pretty scene it was, when the castle was finished, and its ramparts adorned with long green festoons and pennants of brown ribbons; and Reggie sat at the top kicking his little bare legs with delight, while Rolf dug the trench down to the sea, which filled and bubbled over in a miniature lake, in which disported the luckless crabs and jelly fish which he had collected for his aquarium.
There is something sad in the transitoriness of children’s play on the shore; they are so eager to build up their sand towers and mounds. When the feeble structure is finished the little workpeople give a cry of joy, as though some great task were accomplished. Then the waves creep up stealthily; there is a little cold lisping outside the outworks, as though the treacherous foes were lurking around; in a few seconds the toy castle is in ruins. The children look at the grey pool that has engulfed their treasure with wide, disappointed eyes.
“Oh, the greedy sea,” they say, “it has destroyed our castle!” But to-morrow they will come again with beautiful childish faith and build another, and still another, until some new game is proposed, or they are weary of play.
It was quite late in the afternoon when we turned our faces homeward. Joyce was tired, so we put her in the perambulator, and I carried Reggie. Rolf hung behind rather sulkily; fatigue evidently made him cross; but he brightened up in an instant when the sound of horses’ hoofs struck on our ears, and in another moment a little cavalcade came in sight—Miss Cheriton mounted on her pretty brown mare Brownie, and her father and Mr. Hawtry on each side of her.
She smiled and waved her hand to us, and Mr. Hawtry raised his hat slightly. They would have passed on, but Rolf exclaimed, “Oh, do take me up for a ride, Mr. Hawtry, I am so tired!” and Mr. Hawtry looked at Miss Cheriton, and pulled up at once.
“Put your foot on my boot, then, and I can reach you,” he returned; and as Hannah lifted him up, not without difficulty, he threw his arm round him, and kept him steady. “Now, then, hold tight; we must overtake the others,” I heard him say, and they were soon out of sight.
“It must be werry nice to be Rolf,” sighed Joyce, enviously, as Hannah wheeled her up the dusty road.
I think we were all glad when we had reached the cool nursery, and found a plentiful tea spread on the round table. The children were so sleepy that we were obliged to put them to bed as soon as they had finished their tea.
Rolf did not make his appearance until later, and then he burst into the room with his arms full of paper and string, and we were very soon hard at work on the window-seat, constructing the tail for his kite.
He was in high spirits, and talked volubly all the time.
“I told mother about bread and salt,” he began, “and she liked the idea very much. She made me repeat it again to grandpapa, and he patted me on the head, and gave me half-a-crown. When grandpapa is pleased about anything he always gives people half-a-crown. I think he ought to give you one, Fenny. Do you mind my calling you Fenny? it sounds so nice, rather like funny, and you are so funny sometimes.”
“It sounds much more like Fanny,” I returned.
“Oh, do you think so? I will ask Aunt Gay what she thinks. Aunt Gay is so fond of you, she told me so to-day, only she said it was a secret, so you must keep it. I told Mr. Hawtry the story about the robber servant this evening after dinner, and he said that he was a plucky fellow, in spite of his being a robber; and so I think. Do you like Mr. Hawtry, Fenny?”
“I do not know him, dear.”
“Oh, no, of course, you are only a nurse, and so you don’t come in the drawing-room like other people; you would not know how to behave, would you? Mr. Hawtry said something about you this evening. Mother was talking to him, you know how, only I can’t tell you—bread and salt, you know,” and here Rolf looked excessively solemn; “and Mr. Hawtry said—no, don’t stop me, it is nothing bad, nothing like mother; oh, dear, it will come out, I know—he only said, ‘She seems a very quiet, well-conducted young person, and not at all above her duties,’ for you were carrying Reggie, you know.”
“Oh, Rolf, do hold your tongue,” I exclaimed, crossly, for this was too much for my forbearance. What business had Mrs. Markham to talk me over with strangers? I ought to have stopped Rolf, but my curiosity was too strong at that moment. “A quiet, well-conducted young person,” indeed. I felt in a fever of indignation.
Rolf looked up from his kite with some surprise.
“Does talking disturb you? We are getting on beautifully. What a lovely tail my kite will have!” Then, as though a thought struck him, “Are you ever cross, Fenny; really cross, I mean?”
“Yes, very often, Rolf,” for being a fairly conscientious person, I could not deny my faults of temper.
“Oh!” with a peculiar intonation, “I wonder if Aunt Gay knows that. Do you remember any anecdotes about crossness, Fenny?”
I am afraid of what my answer might have been, for I was considerably nettled at Rolf’s malicious tone, but happily Judson came at that moment with a message from Mrs. Markham that even Rolf did not dare to disobey, for he ran off at once, without bidding me good-night, and leaving all his tackle strewn over the floor for Judson to clear.
As soon as I was left in solitude, I went to the open window. It was clear moonlight again. There were the tree-shadows, and the long, silvery path across the meadows; a warm radiance from the drawing-room was flung across the terrace. The same sweet bird-like voice that I had heard in the orchard that morning was singing an old-fashioned ballad—
“My mother bids me bind my hair.”
Someone clapped their hands and said “Bravo!” when it was finished.
“What a lovely evening! Do come into the garden, Adelaide; it is quite warm and balmy.” And then there was a rustle and movement underneath me, a sweep of dark drapery, followed by the whisk of a white gown, as Gay ran down the steps, pursued by Rolf. Two gentlemen sauntered down the terrace; one of them was Mr. Hawtry; I could hear his voice quite plainly.
“This is a capital cigarette, squire. When a man is not much of a smoker, he will not put up with an inferior article. I have some cigars by me now——” The remainder of the interesting sentence was lost in the distance.
Men are rather satirical on the subject of women’s talk. They quiz us dreadfully, and insist that our main topic is bonnets, but I am not sure that we could not retaliate with equal force. Bonnets can be treated as works of art, but could anything be more trivial and worthless than a cigar?
They were still talking about the odious things when they returned, only I was too disgusted to listen any more. I was in a bad humour, that was certain—one of those moods when only a real tough piece of work can relieve one. I closed the window and drew down the blind, and then armed myself with my pocket dictionary. I would write a long letter to my mistress, and tell her about our afternoon on the beach, and I would pick out the hardest and most difficult words—those that I generally eschewed.
I heard afterwards I had written a beautiful letter, without a single mistake, and that my mistress read it over and over again—that is, that she considered it beautiful, because it was all about the children.
“Nonsense, Merle, it was a sweet letter, and I showed it to my husband.”
I was in a better humour when I had finished it, and called Hannah.
“Hannah, we shall go on the beach to-morrow morning, and so I shall be able to spare you in the afternoon; I shall not take the children farther than the garden. You can go and have tea with your sister, if you like, and you need not hurry home. I am growing far too idle, and I have not half enough to do,” for I wanted to check any expression of gratitude on the girl’s part, but a tap at the door silenced us both.
It was only Miss Cheriton come to wish me good-night. She had a basket of fruit and a dainty little bunch of roses in her hand.
“I saw the light in your window, and thought of the poor prisoner behind it, and I thought this would cheer you up,” laying her pretty offerings on the table. “I am going to take you all for a drive to-morrow through Orton-on-Sea; the children will like to see the shops and jetty. Well, good-night; I am dreadfully sleepy; to-morrow we will have another long talk.” And then she left me alone with the roses.
(To be continued.)
“SHE SAT ALONE BY THE FIRE ONE DAY.”