CHAPTER XVI.
MOLLY.
One afternoon, much to Hannah’s delight, I took the children to Wheeler’s Farm. Rolf did not accompany us; Mrs. Markham had sent up word to the nursery that morning that he was to drive with her into Orton. He had complied with this order rather sulkily, after extracting from me a promise that I would play soldiers with him in the evening.
It was rather a hot July afternoon, but we put Joyce in the perambulator, and Hannah and I carried Reggie by turns, and in spite of the heat we all enjoyed the walk, for there was a lark singing so deliciously above the cornfields, and the hedgerows of Cherry-tree-lane were gay with wild flowers, and every few minutes we came to a peep of the sea.
I recognised Hannah’s description when we came in sight of the old black-timbered house; there was the pear tree in the courtyard, and the mossy trough; a turkey cock Gobbler, of course, was strutting about in the sunny road, and from the farmyard came the cackling of ducks and the hissing of snow-white geese. Just then a little side gate opened, and a robust-looking woman in a sun-bonnet came out, balancing two pails of water with her strong bare arms. Hannah exclaimed, “Well, Molly!” and Molly set down her pails and came to meet us.
She kissed Hannah heartily with, “Glad to see thee, lass,” and then shook hands with me.
“Come in, come in, and bring the children out of the sun,” she said, in a kind, cheerful voice. “Father is smoking his pipe in the kitchen, and will be fine and glad to see you all. Eh, but I am pleased to have you at Wheeler’s Farm, Miss Fenton. Hannah says she has a deal to be grateful to you for, and so have we all for being good to our girl.”
I disclaimed this, and sang Hannah’s praises all the time we were crossing the courtyard to the porch.
Molly shook her head, and said, “Nay, she is none too clever,” but looked gratified all the same.
She was a plain, homely-looking woman, as Hannah said, with high cheek bones and reddish hair, but she looked kindly at the children and me, and I think we all liked her directly.
“Look whom I am bringing, father,” she exclaimed, proudly, and Michael Sowerby put down his pipe and stared at us.
He was a blue-eyed, ruddy old man, with beautiful snow-white hair, much handsomer than his daughter, and I was not surprised to see Hannah, in her love and reverence, take the white head between her hands and kiss it.
“You will excuse our bad manners, I hope,” he said, pushing Hannah gently away, and getting up from his elbow chair. “So these are Squire Cheriton’s grandchildren. He is fine and proud of them, is the squire. Deary me, I remember as if it were yesterday the squire (he was a young man then) bringing in their mother, Miss Violet, to see me when she wasn’t bigger than little miss there, and Molly (mother I mean) said she was as beautiful as an angel.”
“Mother is beautifuller now,” struck in Joyce, who had been listening to this.
The old farmer chuckled and rubbed his hands.
“Beautifuller, is she? Well, she was always like a picture to look at, was Miss Violet, a deal handsomer and sweeter than Madam, as we call her. Eh, what do you say, my woman?” for Molly was nudging him at this point. “Well, sit ye down, all of you, and Molly will brew us some tea.”
“There is Luke crossing the farmyard,” observed Molly, in a peculiar tone, and Hannah took the hint and vanished.
I sat quietly by the window with Reggie on my lap, talking to Michael Sowerby and glancing between the pots of fuchsias and geraniums at a brood of young turkeys that had found their way into the courtyard.
Joyce was making friends with a tabby cat and her kittens, while Molly, still in her white sun-bonnet and tucked up sleeves, set out the tea-table and opened the oven door, from which proceeded a delicious smell of hot bread. She buttered a pile of smoking cakes presently, talking to us by snatches, and then went off to the dairy, returning with a great yellow jug of milk thick with cream, and some new laid eggs for the children.
I did not wonder at Hannah’s love for her home when I looked round the old kitchen. It was low, and the rafters were smoke-dried and discoloured, but it looked so bright and cheery this hot July afternoon, with its red tiles and well-scrubbed tables, and rocking chairs black with age and polish. The sunshine stole in at the open door, and the fire threw ruddy reflections on the brass utensils and bright-coloured china. A sick chicken in a straw basket occupied the hearth with the tabby cat; a large shaggy dog stretched himself across the doorway, and regarded us from between his paws.
“It is Luke’s dog, Rover; he is as sensible as a human being,” observed Molly, and before we commenced tea she fetched him a plate of broken meat from the larder, her hospitality extending even to the dumb creatures.
A wooden screen shut us off from the fire. From my place at the table I had a good view of the inner kitchen and a smaller courtyard with a well in it; a pleasant breeze came through the open door.
As soon as the children were helped, Hannah came back looking rather shamefaced but extremely happy, and followed by Luke Armstrong. He greeted us rather shyly, but seated himself at Molly’s bidding. He was a short, sturdy-looking young fellow, with crisp, curling hair and an honest, good-tempered face. He seemed intelligent and well-mannered, and I was disposed to be pleased with Hannah’s sweetheart.
I found afterwards from Molly when she took me into the dairy that Michael Sowerby had consented to recognise the engagement, and that it was looked upon as a settled thing in the household.
“Hannah is the youngest of us girls, and a bit spoiled,” observed Molly, apologetically. “I told father it was all nonsense, and Hannah was only a chit, but it seemed he had no mind to cross her. The folks at Scroggin’s Mill is not much to our taste, but Luke is the best of the bunch, and a good, steady lad with a head on his shoulders. He was for going to London to seek his fortune,” continued Molly, “for Miller Armstrong is a poor sort of father to him, and Martin elbows him out of all chances of getting any of the money; but Squire Hawtry, of the Red Farm, where Lydia lives as dairymaid, has just lost his head man, and he offered Luke the place. That is what he has been telling Hannah this afternoon in the farmyard; so if Hannah is a good girl, as I tell her, and saves her bit of money, and Luke works his best, Squire Hawtry will be letting them have one of the new cottages he has built for the farm servants, and a year or two may see them settled in it to begin life together.” And here Molly drew a hard work-roughened hand across her eyes as though her own words touched her.
“I am very glad for Hannah’s sake,” I returned. “She is a good girl, and deserves to be happy.”
“Ah, they are all good girls,” replied Molly. “Hannah is no better than the rest, though we have a bit spoiled her, being the youngest, and mother dead. There’s Martin at Scroggin’s Mill wants Lydia, but Lyddy is too sensible to be listening to the likes of him. ‘No, no, Lyddy,’ I say, ‘whatever you do, never marry a man who makes an idol of his money; he will love his guineas more than his wife; better be doing work all your life and die single as I shall, than be mistress of Scroggin’s Mill if Martin is to be master.’”
“You give your sisters very good advice,” I returned.
“I have not much else to give them,” was the abrupt answer; “but they are good girls, and know I mean well. The boys are rather a handful, especially Dan, who is always bird-catching on Sunday, and won’t see the sin of it. But there, one must take boys as one finds them, and not put ourselves in the place of Providence. They want a deal of patience, and patience is not in my nature, and if Dan comes to a bad end with his lame leg and bird-traps, nobody must blame me, who has always a scolding ready for him if he will take it.”
I saw Dan presently under rather disadvantageous circumstances, for as we came out of the dairy who should come riding under the great pear tree but Mr. Hawtry, with a red-headed boy sitting behind him, with a pair of dirty hands grasping his coat. I never saw such a freckled face nor such red hair in my life, and he looked at Molly so roguishly from under Mr. Hawtry’s shoulder, there was no mistaking that this was the family scapegrace.
“Good-evening, Molly,” called out Mr. Hawtry, cheerfully; “I am carrying home Dan in pillion fashion, because the rogue has dropped his crutch into the mill dam, and he could not manage with the other. I found him in difficulties, sitting under the mill hedge, very tired and hungry. You will let him have his tea, Molly, as it was accident and not mischief. I forgot to say the other crutch is lying in the road broken; it broke itself—didn’t it, Dan?—in its attempt to get him home?” and here Mr. Hawtry’s eyes twinkled, but he could not be induced, neither could Dan, to explain the mystery of the broken crutch.
“You will come to a bad end, Dan,” remarked Molly, severely, as she lifted down the boy, not over gently; but she forbore to shake him, as he was wholly in her power—a piece of magnanimity on Molly’s part.
Mr. Hawtry dismounted, perhaps to see that Dan had merciful treatment; but he need not have been afraid, Molly had too large a heart to be hard on a crippled boy, and one who was her special torment and pet. Molly could not have starved a dog, and certainly not red-headed Dan.
He was soon established in his special chair, with a thick wedge of cold buttered cake in his hand. Scolding did not hurt as long as Molly saw to his comforts, and Dan looked as happy as a king in spite of his lost crutches.
Mr. Hawtry came into the kitchen, and when he saw us I thought he started a little as though he were surprised, and he came up to me at once.
“Good-evening, Miss Fenton; I did not expect to see you here, and my little friend, too,” as Joyce as usual ran up to him. “What a lovely evening you have for your walk home! You did not bring Miss Cheriton with you?”
“No; she has visitors this afternoon; the children and I have had our tea here, and now it is Reggie’s bed-time.”
“Shall I call Hannah?” he returned, hastily, for I was putting Reggie in his perambulator. “I saw her walking down the orchard with Luke Armstrong and Matthew.” And as I thanked him he bade Molly good-bye, and, putting his arm through his horse’s bridle, in another moment we could hear a clear whistle.
Hannah came at once; she looked happy and rosy, and whispered to Molly as we went down the courtyard together. Mr. Hawtry was at the horse-block; as he mounted he called me by name, and asked if the little girl would like a ride.
I knew he would be careful, but all the same I longed to refuse, only Joyce looked disappointed and ready to cry.
“Oh, nurse, do let me,” she implored, in such a coaxing voice.
“My horse is as quiet as a lamb. You may safely trust her, Miss Fenton,” he said so persuasively I let myself be over-ruled. It was very pretty to see Joyce as he held her before him and rode down the lane. She had such a nice colour, and her eyes were bright and sparkling as she laughed back at me.
It was very kind of Mr. Hawtry. It seemed to me he never lost any opportunity of giving children pleasure. But I was glad when the ride ended, and I lifted Joyce to the ground.
She clasped me tightly in her glee. “It was so nice, so werry nice, nursey dear,” she exclaimed.
As I looked up and thanked Mr. Hawtry, I found that he was watching us, smiling.
“I am afraid your faith was not equal to Joyce’s,” he said, rather mischievously. “I would not let Peter canter, out of pity for your fears.”
“I beg your pardon,” I stammered, rather distressed by this, “but I cannot help being afraid of everything. You see the children are entrusted to me.”
“I was only joking,” he returned, and he spoke so gently. “You are quite right, and one cannot be too careful over children; but I knew I could trust old Peter,” and then he lifted his hat and cantered down the lane. He could not have spoken more courteously; his manner pleased me.
It caused me a little revulsion when Mrs. Markham met us at the gate with a displeased countenance. She motioned to Hannah to take the children on to the house, and detained me with a haughty gesture.
“Nurse,” she said, harshly, “I am extremely surprised at the liberty you take in my sister’s absence. I am quite sure she would be excessively angry at your taking the children to Wheeler’s Farm without even informing me of your intention.”
“I mentioned it to Miss Cheriton,” I returned, somewhat nettled at this, for Gay had warmly approved of our little excursion.
“Miss Cheriton is not the mistress of the house,” she replied, in the same galling tone. “If you had consulted me, I should certainly not have given my consent. I think a servant’s relatives are not proper companions for my little niece, and, indeed, I rather wonder at your choosing to associate with them yourself,” with a concealed sneer hidden under a polished manner.
“Mrs. Markham,” I returned, speaking as quietly as I could, “I should certainly not have taken the children to Wheeler’s Farm without my mistress’s sanction. I had her free permission to do so; she knew the Sowerbys were highly respectable, and, for my own part, I wished to give pleasure to Hannah, as I take a great interest in her.”
“I shall certainly write to my sister on the subject,” was her answer to this. “You must have entirely mistaken her meaning, and I owe it to her to watch over her children.”
My temper was decidedly rising.
“You need not trouble yourself,” I replied, coldly, “my mistress knows everything I do. I should have written to her myself to-night; she has perfect confidence in me, and I have never acted against her wishes; my conscience is quite clear about this afternoon, but I should not have taken Rolf without your permission.”
“I should hope not,” still more haughtily, but I would not listen to any more; I was not her servant—I could not have served that hard mistress. I found nothing to reverence in her cold, self-absorbed nature, and without reverence, service would be bitter drudgery.
As I passed down the avenue a little sadly, I came upon a pretty scene; a tea-table had been set under one of the elms, and Gay had evidently been presiding over it, but the feast had been long over. She was standing by the table now, crumbling sweet cake for the peacock. Lion was sitting on his haunches watching her, and Fidgets was barking furiously, and a little behind her stood Mr. Rossiter.
Mrs. Markham swept up to them, and I could hear her say in a frosty voice that showed evident ill-temper, “Why has not Benson removed the things? It is nearly seven, and we must go in to dress for dinner; you know Mr. Hawtry is coming.”
“I was not aware of it, Adelaide”—how well I knew that careless voice!—“but it is of no consequence, that I can see; Mr. Hawtry is always here.”
“He cannot come too often,” in a pointed manner. “We all think highly of Mr. Hawtry, I know.”
“Oh, are you going, Mr. Rossiter? Well, perhaps it is rather late.”
“What are you doing, Gay?” so sharply that though I had reached the house I heard her, and turned my head to look.
Benson and the under-footman were coming out of the side door, but Mrs. Markham stood alone under the trees. Gay was sauntering down the avenue with the young curate still at her side, and Lion was following them, and I wondered if Mrs. Markham saw her stop and pick that rose.
I went up to the nursery rather thoughtfully after that. I knew girls were odd and contrary sometimes. Mr. Rossiter was very nice; he was a good, earnest young man, and I liked his sermons; but was it possible that Gay could seriously prefer him to Mr. Hawtry, or was she just flirting with him pour passer le temps, after that odious custom of some girls? But I could not believe it somehow of Gay Cheriton; she was so simple, so unselfish, so free from vanity. It needed a coarser nature than hers to play this sort of unfeeling game. “We shall see,” I said to myself, as I put Reggie into his cot, and then I sat down and wrote to Mrs. Morton.
(To be continued.)