‘What, no father nor mother?’ exclaimed her hostess. ‘Pore gal! But I daresay you’ve got a young man, or if yer ’aven’t yer’ll git one. You’re much too fine a gal to go beggin’. And whatever made yer think of makin’ an ’ole in the water puzzles me. Now, you jest wrap this blanket right round yer, and drink this posset. ’Tain’t to yer taste, p’r’aps, but ’tis the best thing out to warm your blood arter a soakin’.’
She held a filthy mug, filled with a filthy but steaming decoction of treacle and beer to Nell’s lips as she spoke, and the girl opened her mouth mechanically and took it all in. Then, sickened of life and everything in it, including the treacle posset, she rolled herself in the blanket, and with her face towards the fire, sunk into a sleep of exhaustion and despair. Garge, true to his trust, sneaked round at about midnight to ask what news there was of his patient, and was delighted in his rough way to hear that she had recovered.
‘She is a beauty!’ he exclaimed, as he gazed at her pale face, on which the light of the burning logs was playing; ‘a rale rare ’un, that’s wot I thinks! Don’t yer let that fire out afore the morning, mother, for she’ll feel cold when she wakes though it is so ’ot; and now, wasn’t I wise to bring ’er ’ome, ’stead of the perlice station. I bet yer’ll make a pot of money over this, mother, ’stead of the coppers takin’ it. Well, good-night, and don’t yer let ’er go till I’ve seen ’er agin in the mornin’.’
But long before Garge’s mother had roused herself again her visitor had gone. The old woman was tired with the exertions she had made on her behalf, and had taken just the smallest drop of gin to quiet her own perturbed feelings before she turned into bed. But Nell had soon started up from her short, feverish slumber, and lain before the fire with wide-open eyes, staring at the flickering flames, and wondering what the next move of her unhappy life would be. The old woman’s words rang in her ears. ‘What! no father nor mother? Pore gal!’ How ungrateful it had been of her not to remember that she had both father and mother, before she took the fatal plunge which might have separated her from them for ever. Already she felt ashamed of her impetuosity and despair. She resolved, as she lay there, that she would go back to her parents and her home. She would return to Panty-cuckoo Farm, and try to forget that she had ever left it. It would be sweet, she thought feverishly, to smell the woodbine and the roses again—it would cool her brain to lie down on the dewy grass and press her hot cheek to the wild thyme and the daisies that bedecked it. Her mind was still in a bewildered and chaotic state, or Nell would have dreaded the questions that awaited her at Panty-cuckoo Farm; but, luckily, it led her in the right direction. A sudden horror of the publicity she had courted by her rash act took possession of her, and she panted to get up and away before the good Samaritans who had brought her back to life were able to gain any particulars regarding her name or former condition. With this desire strong upon her, she raised herself, weak as she was, and glanced at her surroundings. The logs still burnt brightly on the hearth; the old woman snored mellifluously on a pallet in the corner—for the rest, she was alone. The clothes they had taken off her were hung out to dry on a chair. Nell felt them. They were fit to put on again. She raised herself gently and resumed her attire, which consisted of a dark print dress, a black mantle and a large straw hat, which had not become detached from her head when she went under the water. But she could not go without leaving some token of her gratitude behind her. She felt in the pocket of her dress. Her purse was still there, and it contained several pounds. Nell took out two, and, wrapping them in a piece of paper, placed them in a conspicuous position on the chair. Then she crept softly across the cellar, and, climbing the stone steps that led to the entrance of the tenement, found, to her relief, that the outer door was ajar. There were too many people in the house, and they were of too lawless a kind for anyone to notice her departure, or think it singular if they had. The dawn was just breaking as Nell stepped into the open air; and, though she knew she must look very forlorn, the few wayfarers whom she encountered looked more forlorn still, and no one molested or questioned her. She found she had sufficient money to take her straight away to Usk had she so desired, but she dared not present herself before her people in her present draggled state. So she went into a little lodging in the Waterloo Road, where she was confident that no one would recognise her; and, after staying two nights there, she had so far remedied the state of her wardrobe as to feel able to go back to Wales without exciting too much inquiry. But still, Nell was far from being in her normal condition, and moved and spoke like a woman in a dream.
CHAPTER VII.
When visitors went for the first time to Usk, and their hostesses wished to imbue them with a sense of the beauties of the place, they generally said, ‘Oh, let us drive to Panty-cuckoo Farm! You must not leave Usk without seeing Panty-cuckoo Farm! The sweetest, most picturesque old place you ever set eyes on; quite a leaf out of the past ages. Sir Archibald Bowmant says it dates from the fourteenth century. And Mrs Llewellyn is such a quaint old woman. You don’t meet with such people in her class now-a-days. We always have our eggs and butter and pork from her, and she will give us a lovely cup of tea, with the best of cream. You must come!’
And the visitors usually agreed that their hostess’s description of the farm and its inhabitants had not been exaggerated, and came back delighted with what they had seen. They drove for some way out of the town of Usk, along an undulating road, almost overshadowed by the meeting branches of lofty elm and oak trees, and fringed by hedges, fragrant at this time of year with meadowsweet and climbing travellers’ joy and wild roses. A sudden curve in the road brought them to a wide, white gate, which led by a most precipitous pathway to the farmhouse. On either side this pathway were placed large, whitewashed blocks of stone, to enable the wheels of cart or carriage to keep from rolling into the little trench by which it was bordered. On one side the trench or ditch was a large orchard stretching away beyond where the eye could reach, and well stocked with apple, and pear, and cherry trees. Beneath their shade were numerous coops of hens, with their broods of little white chickens scattered round them like fallen blossoms of May; and flying like the wind at their mother’s call, as the black porkers, for which Farmer Llewellyn was famous, came grunting behind each other, eating the windfalls, and turning the refuse over with their ringed snouts. Opposite to the orchard was a plot of grass, which ran along the side of the house, and was decorated by garden beds, filled with carnations, lilies, mignonette, geraniums, and such common sweet-smelling flowers. This part of the house had been built subsequently to the original portion, and had a side entrance of its own beneath a little porch covered with honeysuckle and clematis. It consisted of only two rooms, and as the farmer’s family had never consisted of more than his two daughters, Mrs Llewellyn had been in the habit of letting these rooms to casual visitors to Usk who required a lodging for a few nights. Especially had they been at the service of Sir Archibald Bowmant during the shooting season, as he often had more bachelors staying at Usk Hall than he could accommodate, and knew he could trust their comfort with safety to his old tenant, Mrs Llewellyn. Sir Archibald’s woods skirted the road opposite Panty-cuckoo Farm, so that his guests had only to cross the park to gain their nightly lodgings, and so much trust had Mrs Llewellyn in her landlord’s visitors, that when her rooms were occupied she let the young gentlemen come and go as they liked, without holding any inquisitorial espionage over their proceedings. But this wing of the house had nothing to do with the farm itself; visitors to the Llewellyns drove straight down the precipitous drive till they turned round at the foot to face the front of the farm, which consisted of a low, rambling building, of dark red brick, with a thatched roof. Before it was a prim, old-fashioned strip of ground, guarded by a row of eight box trees, cut in the shape of peacocks. On the walls of the house were a magnificent magnolia, and some plants of the crimson pyrus japonica, which gave it a wonderfully warm appearance. As soon as carriage wheels were heard, Mrs Llewellyn usually opened the door and came down the bricked path to welcome her visitors. She would never hear of their leaving before they had partaken of her tea and cream. The parlour was entered immediately from the front door, and was wainscotted half-way to the ceiling with rich, dark oak, of which the ceiling itself was formed, divided into squares, with a plain but different device carved in each. The windows of this room were lattice-paned, and contained window-seats in the shape of oak settles, which opened like boxes to store the house linen. The fireplace was a mass of carving, without any mantelpiece, but a wide range below for logs, and iron dogs on either side to support them. Mrs Llewellyn much prided herself on this parlour. She knew the value and beauty of it as much as anybody, though she sometimes grumbled at its inconveniences, and said she would exchange it any day for a modern-built house. It opened into a wide, bricked passage, or ante-room, where the farmer hung his coats, and a table stood piled with the prayer-books of the family, ready to be distributed when church time came round again. Nell’s still lay amongst them. Her mother often sighed when she accidentally touched it; sometimes she had been seen to raise it furtively to her lips before she laid it down again. It was outside this ante-chamber that the two rooms had been added that were occasionally let as lodgings, and the door, which originally had opened from it to the garden, now led to them. Visitors passed through it to the dairy, where the shelves were piled with the year’s cheeses, and marble slabs held the mounds of fresh butter, waiting to be made into rolls or pats by the rosy-cheeked dairymaid, and the pans were standing covered with thick, rich, yellow cream, such as Mrs Llewellyn was famed for all the country side. This dairy led across a covered-in yard to the baking-house, and in the centre of the yard stood a well, centuries old, with an Elizabethan cross surmounting its quaint, arched roof. In fact, there was no end to the curiosities in Panty-cuckoo Farm, and ladies with purses full of money had tried over and over again to induce the farmer and his wife to part with some of their bits of blue china, and yellow lace, and old wood carving, that they might carry them back to adorn their drawing-rooms in Kensington or Westminster. But the Llewellyns were steadfast in their courteous refusals. No amount of coin would have made them sell the little relics that adorned their rooms, and had come down to them from unknown ancestors. They would as soon have sold their own flesh and blood. There was something about these people above the general run of farmers and their wives. Countrified they necessarily were, but not vulgar nor common, and even in the lowly position they occupied they managed to infuse so much dignity that even their superiors recognised it, and met it with respect. It was rather an important occasion with Mrs Llewellyn when we are first introduced to her, for her daughter Hetty was coming, with her husband and several of her new relations, to take tea at Panty-cuckoo Farm for the first time since her return from London, and her mother was eager to do her honour. Mrs Llewellyn had evidently been a very handsome woman in her youth, and as she moved about her rooms, clad in her gala dress of grey merino, with a white muslin kerchief pinned across her bosom, and a large cap covering her iron-grey hair, it was evident from whom poor Nell had inherited the beauty that had proved such a misfortune to her. Tall and upright, with a fresh colour in her face, and her hazel eyes beaming with expectation and pride in her table, Mrs Llewellyn looked quite a picture as she moved about her room and arranged the feast for her expected guests. The brown bread and fresh butter, the cream and new-laid eggs, the honeycomb and home-made preserves, the cut ham and water-cresses, made up a picture of beauty that any housewife might have been proud of; and Farmer Llewellyn chuckled with satisfaction as he sat in one of the window settles and watched the tempting display.
‘That’s right, wife!’ he exclaimed, ‘stuff them well. You’ll get more friends through their stomachs than you’ll ever do through their hearts.’
‘Oh, Griffith,’ she replied, ‘that’s a poor way of looking at it; not but what a good meal’s a good thing after all. But I shouldn’t like the Owens to go home and say they hadn’t had enough to eat. And it’s our Hetty’s first visit, too,’ and here Mrs Llewellyn heaved a deep sigh.
‘What’s up now?’ said her husband. ‘You can’t expect to keep your girls with you for ever, you know, Mary; and William Owen is as good a lad as ever stepped in shoe leather, and will keep our Hetty well. We might have gone further and fared worse for a husband for her.’