AT TEYMOUTH
IT was a cloudless August day, oppressively hot in the sunshine but
pleasant in the shade, and there was shade on the beach at Teymouth
beneath the shelter of the high, red cliffs where a happy party,
consisting of Mrs. Wyndham and her five children, was assembled.
The plan which Ann Reed had suggested, that the Wyndhams might take
lodgings at Teymouth for their summer holiday, had actually been
carried out, and now they were in residence at a farm house situated
about half a mile from the village, and thoroughly enjoying the novel
experience of life in the country.
This afternoon the young folks had made a huge fire of drift wood,
over which they were trying to boil a kettle of water preparatory
to making tea, whilst a table-cloth—kept in place by a big stone
at each corner—had been spread on the sand and displayed a tempting
repast of bread and butter, cake, and a big tin of clotted cream.
"I hope they'll come soon," said Violet, who was feeding the fire
with sticks, "for the kettle is beginning to sing; but they are not
in sight yet, and old Mrs. Reed does walk so slowly."
"She'll get along quicker with father to lend her an arm," observed
Ruth; "as soon as the kettle boils I think we had better make the
tea."
They were waiting for Ann and her grandmother, and for Mr. Wyndham
who had gone to offer the old lady his assistance down the somewhat
uneven path which led to the beach. The Wyndhams had been at Teymouth
a fortnight, during which time they had seen Ann and her grandmother
nearly every day. Mr. and Mrs. Wyndham seemed to have cast off all
their cares and to be enjoying their holiday as much as their
children; they felt they might do so with easy minds.
"Here they come at last!" cried Madge, presently. "Does the kettle
boil?"
"Yes," Violet answered. "Ruthie, make the tea. Oh, dear me, I do hope
the water is not smoky!"
Ruth made the tea, and a few minutes later old Mrs. Reed, leaning
on Mr. Wyndham's arm, with Ann on her other side, joined the party,
and was made very comfortable in a deck chair, which had been brought
down to the beach on purpose for her and placed in a sheltered spot.
Though Ann's grandmother was eighty years of age she did not look
so old, for her face was singularly unwrinkled and her brow smooth,
whilst her intellect was as bright as it had ever been, and her sight
and hearing were good. She was a little stiff and slow in her
movements, as the result of rheumatism, from which she occasionally
suffered, but she was a wonderful woman for her years. There was a
strong likeness between her and her son, and consequently between her
and Ann. All three had the same fine grey eyes, and the same open,
kindly expression of countenance.
"You ought not to make so much of me," the old lady said, in a voice
which had more than a touch of west-country dialect in its pleasant
tones, "for think how I shall miss your attentions by-and-by!"
"We won't think of 'by-and-by,'" replied Mrs. Wyndham; "let us live
in the present and enjoy these happy hours as much as we can. Ruth,
will you pour out the tea, my dear? Boys, make yourselves useful and
hand around the plates. We must make tables of our laps."
The meal commenced right merrily. Everyone was in good spirits, and
the tea, though it proved a trifle smoky, was not enough so to be
spoilt, and was drunk and enjoyed; in fact Billy went so far as to
declare that he preferred the flavour of smoky tea. Full justice was
done to the eatables, too, and the plates of bread and butter and cake
were soon emptied, whilst, at the completion of the repast, only about
a teaspoonful of cream remained at the bottom of the tin, which had
been full to the brim.
"I hope everyone has had enough," said Mrs. Wyndham; then, as they all
declared they had made capital teas, she indicated the empty plates
and quoted: "Enough is as good as a feast."
"I call it a feast when one has cream," remarked Madge; at which they
all laughed, and Mrs. Reed promised to send her some cream on her
birthday if she would tell her the date, which she was only too
pleased to do.
As soon as tea was over the boys and their father wandered off around
the cliffs, whilst Mrs. Wyndham and the girls, having packed the tea
things into baskets, settled themselves to enjoy a chat with Mrs.
Reed. The latter was a most entertaining companion; for she owned a
wonderful memory which went back more than seventy years: She talked
to them now of her youth, of the time when she had been her
granddaughter's age.
"I was in my first situation, then," she said; "you must understand
that my father was a hard-working man who farmed a few acres, and I
was the eldest of a long family—we all had to turn out and earn our
own livings as soon as we were old enough."
"Did you like being a servant?" asked Madge curiously.
"Not at first, my dear," Mrs. Reed admitted, with a bright smile at
her little questioner; "I had to work very hard, and I was at the age
when young girls naturally like amusements; but, by-and-by, as I tried
to do my duty, I grew to like it better. 'Tis the working bee that
gets the best sweets from life, after all."
"Do you really think that?" Ruth inquired; then, as Mrs. Reed
emphatically assented, she begged her to tell them some more about her
youthful days.
The old lady willingly complied, and, from speaking of her girlhood,
she went on to her married life and the birth of her son. She told
them how the boy had always evinced an eagerness for knowledge, and
how she and his father had worked and saved so that he might have the
advantages of a good education and a fair start in life.
"My husband was very proud of our boy, but I don't think he ever
guessed he would do as well as he has," she said simply; "my son never
caused me a moment's anxiety in my life," she added with a tender
smile.
"He always loved you too well to do that, Granny," said Ann, her open
face glowing with gratification as she listened to her father's
praise.
It was very pleasant there in the shelter of the cliffs. Presently
a fleet of fishing boats, with unfurled to catch the evening breeze,
appeared in sight, going up the channel, the light from the setting
sun shining full upon them.
"How pretty they look!" cried Ann; "I wish they would come nearer
so that we could have a better view of them."
"They will not do that," said her grandmother; "they are Brixham
trawlers, and will keep well out at sea."
The conversation then turned upon fishing and boating, and,
subsequently, to the expected visit of Dr. and Mrs. Reed, which had
been arranged for the early part of September. Dr. Reed meant to take
a fortnight's holiday and intended to leave his practice to the care
of his partner, Mr. Luscombe, meanwhile.
By-and-by Mr. Wyndham and the boys returned; and then, as the sun had
nearly set, a general move was made, and the party left the beach.
The Wyndhams' way led past Mrs. Reed's cottage, at the gate of which
goodbyes were exchanged and Ann arranged to meet her friends on the
following morning.
Mrs. Reed, who was considerably tired, went straight indoors, but Ann
lingered to watch the Wyndhams out of sight, and when she entered the
cottage she found her grandmother had gone upstairs to remove her
bonnet and cloak. The girl hung her hat on a peg in the passage, and
turned into the comfortable little parlour, where, on the table in the
centre of the room, she immediately caught sight of a letter addressed
to herself; her look was one of surprise as she took it up, for,
though the postmark was that of her native town, the handwriting on
the envelope was unknown to her.
"Whom can it be from?" she murmured, as she went to the window in
order to see better, for the daylight had almost gone. "Why, it's from
Dr. Elizabeth!" she exclaimed, as she opened the letter and glanced at
the signature, "what can she have to say to me?" And she commenced to
read:—
"MY DEAR ANN,"
"I am writing to tell you that poor Malvina Medland
died this morning. She was so much worse all last week
and suffered so greatly that no one could wish her life
to be prolonged. I am thankful to say, however, that
she was spared pain at the end, and passed away
as quietly as if she had been falling asleep. The night
before last I was with her for some time, and she
asked me to remind you of a promise you once made her,
she did not explain what it was; she said, 'Please
tell Miss Ann I rely upon her to keep her promise,'
so I remind you now. No doubt you will understand
what the poor girl meant. You will be glad to hear
that both Mrs. Medland and Lottie were with Malvina
at the time of her death; Mrs. Medland appears
broken-hearted, for Malvina was her favourite child."
The letter dropped from Ann's hand, and she stood gazing with unseeing
eyes out of the window. Malvina was dead. The brave, patient life was
at an end. Never again, with aching back and weary arms, would she
"mind babies" or do plain needlework or crochet; she was beyond all
that in the presence of the Great Physician. Ann knew she had no need
to be sorry for Malvina now, but the tears welled up in her eyes and
ran down her cheeks as she recalled her last interview with the sick
girl, and her tender heart was full of sympathy for the mother and
sister in their desolation.
"I am glad I made Malvina that promise," she thought, "I believe it
made her very happy; but I don't know how I am going to keep it—
perhaps God will show me when I get home."
She picked up Dr. Elizabeth's letter and finished reading it. By that
time her grandmother had come downstairs and she had to account for
her tears; and they talked of Malvina—whom old Mrs. Reed knew well by
repute—till they were interrupted by the servant who brought in the
lamp and the supper things.
The next morning when Ann, according to the arrangement she had made,
joined the three Wyndham girls in a walk through some beautiful woods
which adjoined Teymouth, Violet noticed at once that she was unusually
subdued in her manner, and asked if anything was amiss. In a voice
which faltered, in spite of the effort she made to keep it steady, Ann
told her news.
"Malvina dead!" gasped Violet, with a rush of tears to her brown eyes;
"oh, Ann! When did you hear that?" She looked, as she felt, much
shocked.
"Last night, in a letter from Dr. Elizabeth, which arrived for me
while we were on the beach," Ann rejoined; "she did not suffer at the
last, so Dr. Elizabeth says, I felt so relieved to hear that. Do you
remember, Violet, how she said that day when we went to say good-bye
to her at the hospital 'He will be with me all the way?'"
Violet assented with a nod, she could not trust her voice to speak,
and Madge asked:—
"What did she mean, Ann?"
"That Jesus would be with her. I am sure she was thinking of that
verse in the twenty-third psalm, 'Yea, though I walk through the
valley of the shadow of death I will fear no evil: for Thou art with
me; Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me.'"
"Poor girl," murmured Ruth, who, like Madge, had heard all about
Malvina from Violet; "did she die in the hospital?" she inquired.
"Yes," assented Ann, "but her mother and sister were with her when she
died. Oh, I do feel so sorry for them!"
"So do I," said Ruth, "more especially for the sister. It must be so
dreadful to know you have given trouble to one you love, and that you
will never be able to make amends."
"The sister is a very naughty girl, isn't she, Ann?" questioned Madge.
"Yes, she is," Ann was obliged to admit. "I suppose Violet has been
telling you about her?"
"Yes," Madge nodded; "and Violet says you promised to be a friend
to her if Malvina died."
"So I did; and I mean, if possible, to keep my word."
"I suppose you have a great many friends," remarked Madge seriously,
"you would, as your father is so well known and—"
"Madge!" interrupted Ruth, in an admonishing tone, fearful of what her
young sister was about to say.
"I haven't said anything out of the way, have I?" inquired Madge,
innocently.
"No, no," Ann assured her. "Father is well known, of course, because
he has lived many years in Barford; we have a lot of friends there.
I suppose you know a good many people at Streatham, don't you?"
"No," rejoined Madge; "we've always been too poor to know people,
but it will be different now, I hope. There are some people I do not
wish to know," she continued, glancing at Violet, who suddenly grew
very red, "Agnes Hosking, for instance—"
"Oh, we will not talk of her!" broke in Ruth; "of course we should
never be on terms of friendship with a girl who has treated Violet
badly. Ann, I wonder if that tortoise-shell purse will ever be found;
do you think it is at all likely it will?"
This was the first occasion on which Ruth had mentioned the matter
of the loss of Agnes' purse to Ann. Ann shook her head dubiously
in answer to Ruth's question; she was beginning to give up hope that
the purse would ever be recovered now.
"It is very hard for Violet," Ruth whispered, as she and Ann fell
behind the other two in the narrow woodland path through which they
were walking, "but she acted most foolishly and wrongly. She has told
me everything. Her behaviour must have surprised and shocked you,
yet you tried to protect her and stood her friend." There was deep
gratitude in Ruth's tone.
"Why, of course I did," responded Ann, "I am sure you would have done
the same."
"Yes, but she is my sister."
"And she is my friend."
Ruth smiled. She was right glad that Violet had such a friend as this
girl to stand by her. Once she had feared that Ann might try to
supplant her in Violet's affections; but then she had not known Ann,
whom to know was to trust.