"The merry homes of England!
Around their hearths by night,
What gladsome looks of household love
Meet in the ruddy light!
There, woman's voice flows forth in song
Or childhood's tale is told,
Or lips move tunefully along
Some glorious page of old."
Mrs Hemans.
"You're my Maggie May, aren't you?"
There was a murmured "Yes," and a tired and weary wee head was laid to
rest on my shoulder.
We were all sitting round the log fire that burned on our low hearth,
one wild night in winter. Outside such a storm was raging as seldom
visits the southern part of these islands. It had been hard frost for
days before, with a bright and cloudless sky; but on the morning of this
particular day the blue had given place to a uniform leaden grey. The
cloud canopy lowered, the horizon neared, then little pellets of snow
began to fall no larger than millet-seeds, till they covered all the
hard ground, and powdered the lawn, and lay on the laurel-leaves, and on
the ivy that the sparrows so love. Gradually these pellets gave place
to broad dry flakes of snow.
"How beautiful it was, falling so silently all day long,
All night long, on the mountains, on the meadows,
On the roofs of the living, on the graves of the dead."
Yes, silently it had come down, and by sunset it was some inches deep on
every tree; and very lovely were the Austrian pines and spruce-firs on
the lawn, with their branches bending earthwards under their burdens of
snow.
But later in the evening a change had come over the spirit of the scene,
and a wild wind had begun to blow from the east. It blew first with a
moaning, mournful sound, that saddened one's heart to listen to; but
soon it gathered force, and shrieked around the cottage, and tore
through the leafless branches of the tall lime-trees with a noise that
made both Frank and me think of gales and storms in the wide Atlantic.
Little Ida, our youngest tottie, was sitting on the hearth painting
impossible birds of impossible colours, and using Sir John the Grahame's
back as an easel. She shook her paint-brush at me as she remarked
seriously, "She is my Maggie May, and ma's Maggie May, and Uncle Flank's
Maggie May, and Sil John the Glahame's Maggie May." My wife looked up
smiling from her sewing.
"Quite right, child," she said, "she is all our Maggie Mays."
"O! ma," remonstrated Ida, "that's not dood glammer. There touldn't be
two Maggie Mays, tould there, pa?"
"Quite impossible," I replied; "but how would _you_ say it?"
"I would say--`She is _all of us's Maggie May_.'"
Having put our grammar to rights, Ida went quietly on painting.
Maggie May, it will be gathered from the above, was a pet in the family
circle: she certainly was at present, though not the baby either.
The facts of the case are as follows: Maggie May was an invalid. Not
very long before this she had been lying on a bed of pain and illness,
from which none of us had expected to see her rise. She was but a
fragile flower at the best, but as her recent indisposition had been
partly attributable to me, I had tenfold interest in getting her well
and strong again.
It happened thus: our bonnie black mare Jeannie has been allowed to have
a deal of her own way, and never starts anywhere till she has had a
couple of lunch biscuits and a caress. After this she will do anything.
I had driven the two girls over to a farm about eight miles from our
cottage, and on the way back had occasion to call on a friend. "Stand
quiet," I said; "Jeannie, I won't be long, and I'll bring you a
biscuit." Jeannie tossed her tail and moved her ears knowingly as much
as to say, "All right, master. Don't forget. A bargain is a bargain."
But woe is me! I did forget, completely; and when I jumped into the
phaeton Jeannie refused to budge.
Well, I suppose I lost my temper. I flicked her with the whip. Then
the mare lost hers. She screamed with rage, and next moment she was
tearing along the road with the bit in her teeth at a fearful speed.
All my efforts to control the speed of the runaway were in vain. Little
Ida clung in terror to me; Maggie May sat firm, but pale.
On we rushed, luckily meeting nothing on the road. A whole mile was
speedily pat behind us. But half a mile further on was the dismal dell
called Millers' Dene, with the descent to it dangerous even at a walking
pace. To attempt to take it, at the rate we were now moving, would be
certain destruction. Could I check the mare before we reached the brow
of the hill? I tried my utmost, but utterly failed.
Then my mind was made up. There were broad hedges at each side of the
road, and no ditch between.
Summoning all my calmness and strength then, for a supreme effort, and
just as we had reached the end of the level road, and the dreadful dene
[a glen or ravine] lay deep down before us, with a sudden wrench I
swerved the mare off the road and put her at the hedge.
It was a desperate remedy, but so far successful, and the only one
really hurt was poor Maggie May.
It was one of those adventures one never forgets.
The child had received a terrible shock, and for weeks hovered 'twixt
death and life. No wonder then that we made much of her, now we had her
back amongst us once again; and that each of us did our best to nurse
back the life and joy she had been almost bereft of for ever.
This needed all the more care, in that the shock had been purely
nervous, and her mind, always sensitive, sympathised with her body.
Very pleasant, quiet, and delightful were the evenings we now spent at
Rowan-Tree Cottage. We cared very little to-night, for instance, for
the wild wind that was raging without, albeit we sometimes thought--not
without a kind of shudder--of sailors far at sea, or of travellers
belated in crossing the moors.
Uncle Frank--as we all called him--and I had constituted ourselves the
story-tellers at these little fireside reunions. A right jolly, jovial
sailor was Frank, with a big rough beard, tinged with grey, a
weather-beaten face as brown as the back of a fiddle, and blue eyes that
swam in fun and genuine good nature.
Frank had been everywhere by sea and land, and I myself have seen a bit
of the world. It would have been strange indeed, then, if we could not
have told stories and described scenes and events, from our experience,
that were bound to interest all who listened.
Sometimes these experiences would be related in the form of
conversations; at other times, either Frank or I had written our
stories, and read them to our little audience.
Stories were interspersed with songs and the music of the fiddle. Frank
was our sweet singer for the most part; he was also our musician.
Flaying, however, on his part was never what you might call
premeditated; something in the air, you might say, or in the state of
our feelings, rendered music at times a necessity; then Frank would take
up his instrument as quietly and mechanically as if it had been that
meerschaum of his which, being a sailor, he was allowed to smoke.
Now, in the evenings, with his fiddle in his hand, Uncle Frank was
simply complete. "An accomplished player?" did you ask. Perhaps not;
certainly not what is called a trick-player. But the fiddle--O! call it
not a violin--the fiddle when in Frank's hand spoke and _sang_. They
say that a good rider ought to appear part and parcel of the horse he
bestrides. Frank seemed part and parcel of the instrument in his grasp.
Bending lovingly over it, his brown beard floatingly on its breast,
while he played, the fiddle verily seemed inspired with Frank's own
feelings and genius. And while you listened to the melting notes of
some old Irish melody, the green hills of Erin would rise up before your
mind's eye, and the fiddle sang to you of the sorrows of that unhappy
isle. Or the strains carried you away back through the half-forgotten
past, to the days of chivalry and romance, when--
"The harp that once through Tara's halls
The soul of music shed."
But in a moment the scene was changed, and Frank was playing a wild
Irish jig which at once transported you to Donnybrook Fair. Paddy in
all his glory is there; you think you can see him dancing on the village
green, as he twirls his shilelagh or smokes his dudheen.
But anon Frank's fiddle, like the wand of a fairy, wafts us away to
Scotland, and the tears come to our eyes as we listen to some plaintive
wail of the days of auld lang syne, some sweet sad "lilt o' dool and
sorrow."
Or we are transported to the times of the Jacobite rebellions, and as
that spirited march or that wild thrilling pibroch falls on our ears we
cannot help thinking that, had we lived in those old days, and heard
such music then, we too might have fought for "Bonnie Prince Charlie."
It would be difficult to give the reader any very definite idea of the
appearance of our cottage outside or inside. Though not very far from
the village, it was so buried in trees of every sort--elms, oaks,
lindens, chestnuts, pines, and poplars--that no photographer, or artist
either, could ever sketch it. Much less can I. But just imagine to
yourself all kinds of pretty shrubberies, and half-wild lawns, and
rustic rose-clad arches, and quaint old gables, and verandahs over which
the sweet-scented mauve wistaria fell in clusters in spring, when the
yellow laburnum and the lilacs were in bloom. Let flowers peep out from
every corner and nook--the snowdrop, the crocus, daffodil and primrose
in April, with wild flowers on the lawns in summer, and syringas and
roses even in the hedges; and people the whole place with birds of every
size, from the modest wee wren or little tit to the speckled mavis and
orange-billed blackbird, that sang every morning to welcome the sunrise;
let wild pigeons croodle among the ivy that creeps around the
poplar-trees, and nightingales make spring nights melodious; and imagine
also all kind of coaxing walks, that seemed to lead everywhere, but
never land one anywhere in particular; and you will have some faint
notion what Rowan-Tree Cottage was like.
To be sure our place was most lovely in spring and summer, but it had a
beauty of its own even in winter, when the snow lay thick on the lawns
and terraces, and seemed to turn the trees into coral. We had pets out
of doors as well as pets inside--wild pets as well as tame ones.
The former were chiefly the birds, but there were splendid great brown
squirrels also, that used to run about the lawn with their immensities
of tails trailing over the daisies, and that, if they heard a footstep,
simply got up on one end the better to see who was coming: if it was any
of us, they were in no hurry to disappear; but if a stranger hove in
sight, then they fled up a neighbouring elm-tree with a celerity that
was surprising.
There were tame dormice too, that peeped out from among the withered
leaves or climbed about on the may-trees close beside our garden
hammocks. They easily knew the shape of a stranger, or the voice of one
either, and used to slide slily away if any person unfamiliar to them
appeared on the scene.
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"Listen to the wind," said mamma; "why it seems to shake the very
house!"
"It sounds like wild wolves howling round the door," said Frank.
"But see how brightly the fire is glowing," I remarked, in order to give
a less dismal tinge to the situation.
Frank got up and went to the door to look out, but speedily returned.
"Why," he said, "it is almost impossible to breathe outside. It puts me
in mind of some nights I spent during the winter of 187-, in the Polar
Regions."
"Tell us all about it, Frank; but first and foremost just put a few more
logs on the fire."
Frank quietly did as he was told, and presently such a glorious gleam
was shed abroad as banished every feeling of gloom from our hearts.
Sir John the Grahame, our great wolfhound, who had been dreaming on the
hearth and doing duty as Ida's easel, begged leave to withdraw, and Ida
herself drew her footstool back.
Frank took his fiddle and sat for some time gazing thoughtfully at the
fire, with a smile on his face, playing meanwhile a low dreamy melody
that we could have listened to long enough.
The air he was playing we had never heard before, but it seemed to
refresh his memory and bring back the half-forgotten scenes of long ago.
"If," he began at last, still looking at the fire as if talking to
that, "if you will take a map of the world--"
But stay. Frank's story deserves a chapter all to itself, and it shall
have it too.