CHAPTER XIII.
THE LITTLE WORKERS IN BROWN.
ow delicious it is when one is young to wake up in a fresh place on a summer’s morning. It was my belief that the birds woke me, there was such a twittering under the eaves where the house-martins had built their nests, such a warbling of thrushes breakfasting on the dewy lawn, such a cawing of rooks under the elm trees; such a joyous bird-symphony altogether, while I lay in my old-fashioned blue bed, looking round the quaint old room and trying to decipher the meaning of the curious prints in their black frames. When I was tired of this I rose and went to the window. The kitchen garden, with its row of beehives, was just under the window, and beyond were Cherrytree-lane and Squire Hawtry’s cornfield, and then a vague blue line, and a brown sail shimmering in the sunlight. The sweet peacefulness of the scene seemed to sink into my heart, and I could have sung my Te Deum with the birds.
When the children were dressed and we had finished our early breakfast, I went to the window with Reggie while Hannah was clearing the table. Joyce had already climbed up on the window seat; she was wild to go into the garden and see auntie’s pets, and I thought it would be no harm to humour her fancy and defer our walk to the shore.
As we stood there Miss Cheriton came out on the terrace. She wore a broad brimmed hat, and long gardening gloves, and carried a basket. She gave a low, peculiar call, and in a moment there was a fluttering of wings in the air, and a crowd of pigeons came round her feet to pick up the grain she had scattered; the pheasants and peacocks joined them.
I thought what a pretty picture it would have made; the old red brick house with its ivy-covered gables in the background; the terrace with its sundial and antique vases; the girl in her white gown with her beautiful pets round her, her favourite blue pigeons eating out of her hand.
“Oh, auntie, may we come?” pleaded Joyce; and Miss Cheriton looked up at us and smiled and nodded, and Joyce snatched her sun-bonnet and in a few minutes we had joined her on the terrace.
She greeted us with evident pleasure, and playfully held up her finger to silence Joyce.
“Don’t make a noise, my pet, or Rolf will hear you and want to come out; he is having his breakfast with Aunt Adelaide; and he is so rough and tiresome that I do not care to have him with me just now; you shall go with me into the poultry yard and feed the little yellow chicks yourself.”
Joyce was highly delighted at this prospect, and trotted along in her big white sun-bonnet, chattering as fast as her tongue would go. When we arrived at the poultry yard, Miss Cheriton filled her pinafore with grain and showed her where to throw it, and then picked up one of the downy yellow chicks for Reggie to kiss and hug; but he was so unwilling to part with it that we had some trouble to rescue the warm struggling thing; only the speckled hen was in such a fuss, clacking loudly in the midst of her brood. When we had exhausted the grain and had fed some grey rabbits, and had peeped in at the stables, and had bestowed a passing attention on the big St. Bernard in his kennel—Miss Cheriton’s chief favourite next to her brown mare, Bonnie—we sat down on a bench in the orchard, at some little distance from the beehives, while the children gathered daisies and buttercups.
“I am so fond of this old orchard,” observed Miss Cheriton, as she threw down her empty basket and removed her gloves, showing a pair of small brown hands that looked very strong and capable; “when I have nothing else to do, I and my pets come here and enjoy the quiet. Do you know, the peacocks and pheasants will follow me all over the place as closely as a dog? They don’t mind Lion a bit; and he is as gentle as a lamb. On Sunday afternoon I have all the creatures round me. Adelaide declares I waste my time dreadfully with the beasties.”
“They must give you plenty of occupation, Miss Cheriton,” for I have come to the conclusion that this girl was far from idle. The care of that extensive poultry-yard could be no sinecure’s office, besides which the beehives were her exclusive charge, though I heard afterwards the gardener’s son, Jim, was her under helper. All the live things about the place looked to her for food and comfort. She had a cage full of canaries in the conservatory, and a large grey parrot as well.
“Oh, I am always with my pets and flowers until luncheon-time,” she remarked, carelessly; “Jim is a very handy boy, and helps me with the rough work. I was up at six this morning, and we had moved half the pots in the conservatory before breakfast. I am always up early, except in the winter; the world is not half awake at that time of the year, and certainly not well lighted.”
“Those beehives must be a very profitable investment,” I observed, for I had heard before now that people had added largely to their incomes by keeping bees.
“You would be surprised how much I make by my hives,” she returned. “I have only a limited interest in the poultry yard, and have to find chickens and eggs for the household, but the beehives are my own. I succeeded so well with them last year, and I believe I shall do just as well this autumn. I am very proud of my bees.”
“It would not be a bad plan——” I began, and then I stopped, for I had spoken hastily, and how could I know if my words would be well received?
“Well,” she said, with a pretty air of impatience, “why do you stop? You have got something dreadfully sensible in your head, and I should like to hear it.”
“I am rather too quick with my words,” I answered, somewhat hesitating. “I was only thinking of what you said last night; you were condemning yourself very needlessly, as I think, and comparing your means of usefulness with Mrs. Morton’s.”
“With Violet’s many-sided duties. Well, I do not retract my words. I said I was always amusing myself; so I am; my bees are my playthings.”
“You could make them work for you if you chose,” I returned, quickly; “if one of these hives, for example, were devoted to some good purpose, if the money you got for the honey were given to one of those institutions in which your sister takes such interest.”
“Oh, what a nice idea,” she exclaimed, with a bright look. “I wonder what put that into your head. I was rather uncomfortable having all that money to spend on myself; I thought of giving some to Adelaide for Rolf, only I cannot get up an interest in that boy. I have more than I want, for one does not need so many dresses in the country, and nothing will induce me to go through a London season again. I tried it once,” with a merry laugh, “just to please Violet, but it nearly killed me, so I wrote to father to take me away. I should have liked the balls very well, only I got so dreadfully sleepy before they were over, and the rides in the Row were nice, if only they would have let me gallop, but I was nearly taken up for furious riding once when I could not get Bonnie to stop, and after that Alick lectured me, and I got sick of it.”
“You would not like your sister’s life, then?”
Gay shrugged her shoulders with a gesture of disgust.
“It is not life at all; it is a daily round of harassing duties. Look what it has done for Violet—robbed her of spirits and bloom; she will be an old woman before her time. The fun is very well, but there is too much of it. I pined for fresh air, for the garden, and the bees, and my other pets. I am afraid my partners thought me dreadfully rustic; I seemed to amuse them. I do not care for the young men in ball-rooms, they are so vapid, and, for all their politeness, they seemed to be laughing at one.”
I could not help smiling at this; it was very odd she should be so frank with me. She must have forgotten that I had no experience of ball-rooms, and had never danced except at school-parties, when the girls were allowed to bring their brothers.
“You are looking satirical, Miss Fenton. Oh, of course, I see what you mean; but never mind, there are better things than balls in life. For my part, I prefer a solitary gallop on Bonnie to Strauss’s best waltz, though I do love dancing too, but, you see, neither Violet nor I have been trained to a fashionable life. We have lived in the country, have risen early, and been in the open air from morning to night, and now poor Violet never goes to bed in time to get a beauty sleep, and she drives instead of taking a good walk, so no wonder her cheeks get pale and thin.”
“It is a grievous pity,” I began, but Gay interrupted me.
“Oh, it is no use talking about Violet, I have given her up long ago; Alick has robbed me of her entirely. Now about your benevolent project; I mean to carry it out. Do you know the Children’s Incurable Hospital, Maida Vale? Violet is always working for that. There is to be a ‘Muriel Cot,’ in memory of the dear little baby she lost. Now why should I not have a ‘Children’s Hive,’ and make those special bees gather honey for those little incurable children. I call that a lovely idea. Look, that end hive under the apple tree shall be the one. Miss Fenton, you have emancipated me; I feel a philanthropist already; the world will be the better for me and my workers.”
I looked at her admiringly; such a lovely colour had come to her face, and her eyes looked so bright and happy. I felt I understood Gay Cheriton from that moment. She was one of those guileless, innocent natures that are long in throwing off childhood. She was full of generous impulses, frank and outspoken to a fault; the yoke of life pressed lightly on her; she was like an unbridled colt, that had never felt the curb or the spur; gentle guidance, a word from those she loved, was sufficient to restrain her. I knew now why Joyce had called her the little auntie; there was an air of extreme youth about her; she was so very lovable that diminutiveness suited her, and I thought her father’s pet name of humming bird suited her exactly; she was so quick and bright and restless, her vitality and energy demanded constant movement.
“How I am chattering!” she said at last, “and I have all the vases to fill before luncheon, but, as I told you last night, I am fond of talking if I can get anyone to listen to me. Adelaide never will listen to me patiently; she says I am such a chatterbox. Goodbye for the present, Miss Fenton.” And she tripped away, singing in such a fresh young voice as she went down the orchard that I did not wonder when a little brown linnet perched on a rose-bush answered her. I think the birds must have loved to hear her.
I sat for some time contemplating the low white gate and the row of beehives. I was rather pleased with the idea I had started; a word in season sometimes brings a rich harvest. I thought some time of the tiny workers in their brown livery bringing in their rich stores for the afflicted children; and it seemed to me that the offering would be a sweet savour to the Master who loved children.
I fell into a reverie over it; I thought how much might be done for others with little cost if people would only think; it is want of thought that clogs usefulness. Great sacrifices are so seldom demanded from us; we are not now called upon to forsake all that we hold dear and follow the Christ—little daily duties, small hourly renunciations, pleasures given up for some cheerful loving service: these are the free-will offerings that all may yield, only the people must “give willingly.”
The morning passed pleasantly in the sunny orchard; when the children tired of their play we went back to the house that they might have their noonday sleep. I was sitting alone in the nursery, mending Reggie’s pinafore, when I heard the clatter of noisy footsteps in the corridor, and a moment after the nursery latch was lifted without ceremony, and Rolf peeped in. He had a droll, half-ashamed expression on his face, but it bore no trace of yesterday’s ill-humour.
“May I come in, if you please, Mrs. New Nurse?”
“My name is Miss Fenton, as I told you yesterday; or, you may call me Nurse if you choose. Yes; you may come in and talk to me if you like, Master Rolf; but you must be very quiet, as your little cousins are asleep.”
“What precious babies they must be to sleep in the day!” he observed, disdainfully, as he planted himself without ceremony on the window seat. “I sit up until ten o’clock every night; sometimes I will not go to bed until mother goes.”
“‘Early to bed and early to rise,
Makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise,’
Master Rolf.”
“Wealthy means rich, doesn’t it? Well, Juddy said I shall be a rich man some day. I have got father’s watch and sword now, only mother locks them up until I am bigger. You are not rich, eh, Miss Fenton?” peeping into my face rather maliciously.
“No, Master Rolf,” I returned, quietly.
“Oh, I knew that you are only a nurse; I heard mother and Aunt Gay talking about you last night. Mother said you were a poor sort, and she wondered at Violet’s infatuation. She thought you stuck up and disagreeable, and not much to look at; a plain young woman, and very disrespectful. There, now!”
“Master Rolf,” I observed, calmly, and suppressing my inward wrath, “you call yourself a gentleman, but I assure you a savage shows more gentlemanly feeling than you. Don’t you know your mother’s words should be sacred, and you are bound in honour not to repeat them?” And then, as he seemed rather impressed at this, I told him how, even among savages and wild and uncultured nations, the sense of hospitality and gratitude was so strong that, when a man had partaken of bread and salt, broken the bread of fellowship, he was bound in honour not to betray or injure his host in any way; and I related to him an anecdote of an Armenian servant, who had long been faithful to his master, and had defended him in many dangers in his travels through a lawless country.
“The master,” I continued, “had vast treasures under his care, and he was greatly troubled when his servant said he must leave him. Judge what his feelings must have been when the man coolly told him that he had entered into a league with some banditti to rob him of his money; that it would be mean to remain in his service under these circumstances, and that he had given him warning of his intention, that he might defend himself, and that now they were equal.
“Even this lawless robber had some notions of honour, Master Rolf; while he ate his master’s bread and salt he was bound by his service not to injure him. Now you are only a little boy, but you ought to understand that you also are bound not to betray your mother or repeat her words, as long as you eat her bread and salt; that is the way people do so much mischief in the world, repeating things they know are not meant to be heard.”
Rolf’s eyes sparkled.
“I like that story awfully. Yes,” and looking at me critically, “I like you too, though you are a plain young woman. No, I did not mean to say that,” interrupting himself in a hurry; “bread and salt, you know; I shall always think of that when I am going to tell Juddy things that mother says. She is an old stupid, you know, and she never has time to make a tail to my kite, and mother says she has no patience with her, she is such an——Oh, oh, Miss Fenton, bread and salt! How ever shall I remember when I want to put Juddy in a rage?”
“I daresay I shall be able to help you with your kite,” I returned, changing the subject, “but we shall want plenty of string and paper.”
“Oh, you nice old thing,” replied Rolf, ecstatically. “You are not a bit plain, not a bit; I shall tell mother I think you lovely, and that I mean to marry you when I grow up. Won’t she stare at that? May I bring my kite here this afternoon?”
“No, no, my dear, not this afternoon; we are going to the shore.”
“Oh, then I will come with you. Mother,” as Mrs. Markham appeared at the door, and looked at us with unfeigned surprise, “I can’t drive with you this afternoon; I am going on the beach with Miss Fenton and the children.”
(To be continued.)
THE HISTORY OF HOME
OR
DOMESTIC WAYS SINCE THE TIMES OF HENRY VIII.
By NANETTE MASON.