CHAPTER XVIII.
THE RED FARM.
perceived a great change in Mrs. Markham after my mistress’s visit. She took less notice of the children, sent fewer messages to the nursery, ceased to interfere in the nursery arrangements, and often ignored my presence if she chanced to meet me in the hall or garden. Her manner convinced me that she was deeply offended by her sister’s patronage of me. Very probably Mr. Morton had spoken a few forcible words in my defence. They made her understand that they trusted me implicitly, and that any interference in my department would be displeasing to them. It was easy to read this from her averted looks.
Now and then I heard a word or two about “Violet,” “ridiculous infatuation,” when I passed the open drawing-room door. Rolf once asked me curiously why his mother disliked me so. “You aren’t so very wicked, are you, Fenny? Is it very wicked to be stuck up? Mother is so fond of using that word, you know.”
I tried not to listen to Rolf. I could afford to be magnanimous, for I was very happy just then. Gay’s partiality for me was evident, and I soon conceived the warmest attachment for her. She seized every opportunity of running up to the nursery for a few minutes’ chat, and she often joined us on the beach. One afternoon she asked to accompany us in a country ramble. Hannah had gone to Wheeler’s Farm to have tea with Molly, and Luke was to walk home with her in the evening. I thought how they would enjoy that walk through the cornfields and down the dim, scented lanes. Life would look as sweet to them as to richer lovers; youth and health and love being the three-fold cord that cannot lightly be broken. Gay made the excuse that she would be useful in taking care of Joyce while I wheeled Reggie in his perambulator, I overheard her saying to Mrs. Markham, but her speech only elicited a scornful reply.
“If Miss Fenton encourages Hannah in gadding about, there is not the slightest need for you to take her place, Gay; but, of course, you will please yourself.”
“Oh, I always please myself, Addie,” returned Gay, cheerfully, “and I shall enjoy a gambol among the lanes.”
And, indeed, we had a delightful afternoon gathering wild flowers, and resting ourselves in any shady corner where a fallen tree or stile invited us.
We were gathering some poppies that grew among the corn when Gay called me. She looked a little anxious.
“Merle, I am really afraid there is a storm coming up. You were noticing just now how close and sultry it felt; those clouds look ominous, and we are a mile and a half from Marshlands.”
I felt conscience-stricken at her words. We had been talking and laughing, and had not perceived how the sunshine had faded. Certainly, the clouds had a lurid, thunderous look, and the birds were flying low, and seemed fussy and uncertain in their movements. True, the storm might not break on us for another half-hour; but we should never get the children home in that time. I thought of Reggie with dismay.
“What shall we do, Miss Gay?” I returned, hurriedly. “It would be nearer to Wheeler’s Farm. We might take refuge there.”
“Wait a moment,” was her answer; “we shall be drenched before we get there. The Red Farm is not half a mile off. I think we had better take the children there, and then Mr. Hawtry will send us home in his waggonette. Come—come! Why do you hesitate, Merle? He is father’s old friend; and even Adelaide would find no fault with us if we took refuge at the Red Farm.”
I held my peace, for of course Miss Cheriton must know what her father and sister would approve; but I did not like the notion at all, and I followed her somewhat reluctantly down the field. I would much rather have gone to Wheeler’s Farm and put ourselves under Molly’s protection. Most likely they would have placed a covered cart or waggon at our disposal, and we should all have enjoyed the fun. Gay was so simple and unconventional, that she saw no harm at all in going to the Red Farm; but I knew what Aunt Agatha would say, and I took all my notions of propriety from her.
But the fates were against us, for just as we reached the stile there was Squire Hawtry himself, mounted as usual on Brown Peter, trotting quietly home. He checked Peter at once, and spoke in rather a concerned voice.
“Miss Cheriton, this is very imprudent. There will be a storm directly. Those children will never get home.”
He spoke to her, but I fancied he meant that reproachful look for me. No doubt I was the one to blame.
“It was very wrong,” I stammered; “but we were talking, and did not notice. I want Miss Cheriton to hurry to Wheeler’s Farm.”
“Oh, nonsense!” he said, abruptly; but it was such a pleasant abruptness; “the Red Farm is a mile nearer. Give the little girl to me, Miss Fenton, and then you can walk on quickly. I will soon have her under shelter.”
There was no disputing this sensible advice, and as soon as Peter was trotting on with his double burden I followed as quickly as possible with Reggie. We were only just in time, after all. As I wheeled Reggie under the porch of the Red Farm the first heavy drops pattered down.
I was in such haste, that I only stole a quick glance at the low red house, with its curious mullioned windows and stone porch. I had noticed, as we came up the gravel walk, a thick privet hedge, and a yew walk, and a grand old walnut tree in the centre of the small lawn with a circular seat. There were seats, too, in the porch, and a sweet smell of jasmine and clematis. Then the door opened, and there stood Mr. Hawtry, with a beaming face, and Joyce beside him, evidently pleased to welcome us all to the Red Farm.
I lifted Reggie out of the perambulator and carried him into the hall. It had some handsome oak furniture in it: heavy carved cabinets and chairs, and a tall clock. There was a tiger skin lying before the fireplace. An open glass door led into a charming old-fashioned garden, with a bowling-green and a rustic arbour, and a long, straight walk, bordered with standard rosetrees.
A tall, thin woman, with a placid face and grey hair, shook hands with Gay. Mr. Hawtry introduced her to me as “Mrs. Cornish, my worthy housekeeper,” and then bade her, with good-humoured peremptoriness, “to get tea ready as soon as possible in the oak room.”
“I am afraid the drawing-room has rather a chilly aspect,” he continued, throwing open a door. “Should you not prefer sitting in my den, Miss Gay, until Mrs. Cornish tells us tea is ready?”
I was sorry when Miss Cheriton pronounced in favour of the den. I liked the look of that drawing-room, with its three long, narrow windows opening on to the bowling-green. It had faint, yellowish panelled walls and an old-fashioned blue couch, and there was some beautiful china on an Indian cabinet. No doubt that was where his mother and Miss Agnes used to sit. Perhaps the room held sad memories for him, and he was glad to close the door upon them.
Mr. Hawtry’s den was a small front room, with a view of the privet hedge and the walnut tree, and was plainly furnished with a round table and well-worn leather chairs, the walls lined with mahogany bookshelves, his gun and a pair of handsomely-mounted pistols occupying the place of honour over the mantelpiece. Joyce called it an ugly room, but I thought it looked comfortable and home-like, with its pleasant litter of magazines and papers, and Gay said at once—
“I do like this old den of yours, Mr. Hawtry; it is such a snug room, especially in winter, when father and I have come in after a long, cold ride.”
“You do not come as often now, Miss Gay,” he said, looking at her a little keenly.
She coloured, as though the remark embarrassed her, and seemed bent on excusing herself.
“I am such a busy person, you see, and now I spend all my leisure time with the children. Am I not a devoted aunt, Merle?”
“You are very good to give us so much of your company,” I returned, for I saw she wanted me to speak; but just then a flash of lightning frightened Joyce away from the window, and she came to me for protection. Reggie, too, began to cry, and I had some trouble in pacifying him.
Gay good-naturedly came to my assistance.
“Supposing we take the children into the other room and show them the shells; it would distract their attention from the storm. We will leave you to read your paper in peace, Mr. Hawtry.” But he insisted on going with us. The cabinet had a curious lock, he assured us, and no one could open it but himself.
The children were delighted with the shells, and a little green Indian idol perfectly fascinated Reggie. He kissed the grinning countenance with intense affection, and murmured, “Pretty, pretty.” My attention was attracted to a miniature in a velvet frame. It was a portrait of a round-faced, happy-looking girl, with brown eyes, rather like Mr. Hawtry’s.
“That was my sister Agnes,” he said, with a sigh, and for a moment his face clouded over. “She died two years ago, after years of intense suffering. That miniature was painted when she was eighteen. She was a bright, healthy creature then. Look, that was her couch, where she spent her days. There is a mystery in some lives, Miss Fenton. I never understood why she was permitted to suffer all these years.”
“No, indeed,” observed Gay, who had heard this. “Violet and I were so fond of her; she could be so merry in spite of her pain. I think some of my pleasantest hours have been spent in this room. How pleased she used to be when I had anything new to tell her or show her. I do not wonder you miss her, Mr. Hawtry; I have always been so sorry for you.”
I thought he seemed sorry for himself, for I had never seen him look so sad. I wished then that Gay had not brought us back to this room; it was evidently full of relics of the past, when womanly hands had busied themselves for the comfort of the dearly-loved son and brother.
The little round table beside the couch, with its inlaid workbox and stand of favourite books, must have been Miss Agnes’s, but the netting case and faded silk bag on the other side of the fireplace, with the spectacles lying on the closed Bible, must have belonged to the mother. How sorely must he have missed them! Few men would have cared to have preserved these little homely treasures; they would have swept them away with the dead past. But now and then a strong manly character has this element of feminine tenderness.
I think my look must have expressed sympathy, for Mr. Hawtry came up to me as I stood alone by the window (for Gay was still showing the shells to the children) and said, a little abruptly—
“It is good of you to be sorry for me, but time heals all wounds, and, in spite of pain and loneliness, one would not call them back to suffer.” And then his voice changed to a lower key. “I wish Agnes could have known you, Miss Fenton; how she would have sympathised with your work. All good women are fond of little children, but she doated on them. There were crowds of children in the churchyard on the day she was buried.”
I was too much touched to answer, but he went on as though he did not notice my silence.
“You seem very happy in your work?”
“Very happy.”
“One can see that; you have a most contented expression; it almost makes one envy you. I wonder how you came to think such work was possible.”
I do not know how it was, but I found myself telling Mr. Hawtry all about Aunt Agatha and the cottage at Putney. I had even let fall a word or two about my miserable deficiency. I am not sure what I said, but I certainly saw him smile as though something amused him.
I was almost sorry when Mrs. Cornish called us into the oak room, and yet a most pleasant hour followed. Mrs. Cornish poured out the tea, and the children were very good; even Reggie behaved quite nicely. The room was very dark and low, and furnished entirely with oak, but a cheery little fire burnt on the hearth; and though the thunder rain beat heavily against the window, it seemed only to add to our merriment. Mr. Hawtry had promised to drive us home in the waggonette, but we dared not venture until the storm was over.
When the children had finished their bread and honey they played about the room, while we gathered round the window.
Mr. Hawtry spoke most to Gay, and I sat by and listened. He spoke about Mr. Rossiter presently.
“I think him a capital fellow,” he said, in his hearty manner; “and it quite puzzles me why Mrs. Markham dislikes him so; she is always finding fault with him.”
“Oh, there is no accounting for Adelaide’s likes and dislikes,” replied Gay, a little impatiently. “Sometimes I think she would have found fault with St. Paul himself if she had known him.”
Mr. Hawtry laughed. “Rossiter is not a St. Paul, certainly, but he is a downright honest fellow, and that is what I like. Perhaps he is not a shining light in the pulpit, but he is so earnest and painstaking, that we cannot blame his want of eloquence. He is just the companion that suits me; always cheerful and always good-tempered, and ready to talk on any subject. I must say I am rather partial to Walter Rossiter.”
Now I wonder what made Gay look so pleased, and why her eyes beamed so softly on Mr. Hawtry. But she said nothing, and Mr. Rossiter’s name soon dropped out of the conversation.
Very shortly after that the rain cleared and the waggonette was ordered. While we were waiting for it, Gay asked me to come with her into the dairy to see Lydia Sowerby. I was anxious to see Hannah’s sister, but I own I was not prepossessed with her appearance. She had red hair, like Molly—indeed, most of the Sowerbys had red hair—but she was far plainer than Molly, and it struck me her face looked hard.
I was to own by-and-by, however, that first impressions may be wrong, for a few moments afterwards, when Mrs. Cornish carried Reggie into the dairy, Lydia’s hard-featured face softened in a wonderful manner, and such a pleasant smile redeemed her plainness.
“Oh, do let me hold him a moment,” she said, eagerly; “he reminds me of little Davie, our poor little brother who died. Hannah has talked so much about him.” And when Mrs. Cornish relinquished him reluctantly, she carried him about the dairy with such pride and joy, that Mrs. Cornish nodded her head at her benignantly.
“You are a rare one for children, Lyddy; I never saw a woman to beat you. She is always begging me to ask Dan,” she went on, turning to us. “She spoils Dan hugely, and so does Molly; they are both of them soft-hearted, though you would not believe it to look at them, but many a soft fruit has a rough rind,” finished Mrs. Cornish.
Reggie was asleep all the way home, but Joyce prattled incessantly. I took them into the house as quietly as I could, after bidding Mr. Hawtry good-night. I thought it best to leave Gay to explain things to Mrs. Markham.
But all that evening, until I slept, a sentence of Mr. Hawtry’s haunted me. “I wish my sister Agnes could have known you, Miss Fenton.” Why did he wish that? And yet, and yet I should have been glad to have known Agnes Hawtry, too.
(To be continued.)