In the Meadows
ONE sunshiny afternoon found Angel with Dinah and Dora Mickle
gathering cowslips in the meadows which stretched on either side
of the Wrey, whilst Gerald and Tom fished in the stream. The little
girls all had baskets, which, when they were filled with the golden
flowers, they carried to the spot where the boys sat on the bank
fishing, and commenced making cowslip bulls under Dinah's directions.
"To think you never saw cowslips growing before you came to Wreyford,
Angel!" Dora exclaimed, as, having finished one ball, she threw it
into the air, and caught it again and again. "You wouldn't like to go
back to live in London now, would you?"
"No," Angel returned, her eyes wandering across the meadows with a
great contentment in their grey depths. "What are those lilac flowers
called?" she inquired.
"Oh, those are cuckoo-flowers," Dora answered. "We call them
cuckoo-flowers because they begin to open about the time the cuckoo
comes," Dinah explained; "some people call them 'ladies smocks,'
but they are really a sort of cress, and always grow in rather damp
ground."
"What a lot you know about flowers," Angel said. "I suppose that is
because you have lived in the country all your life."
"I don't know so much about flowers as Gilbert does; he remembers
their botanical names, and understands how to classify them. He would
tell you the cuckoo-flower is a species of cardamine. By the way,
have you heard the cuckoo this year yet?"
"Yes, when I was in the garden with father yesterday. I could not
think what it was at first. I thought it must be one boy calling
to another," Angel confessed, colouring slightly.
"Oh, you silly thing!" cried Tom, looking over his shoulder at the
little girls who were seated on the ground a few yards behind Gerald
and himself. "What an ignoramus you must be!"
Gerald joined in the laugh against his sister, though he was
conscious that he might have made the same mistake himself, knowing
as little as she did of the sights and sounds familiar to country
folks.
"I know it was silly of me," Angel acknowledged, good-temperedly
smiling, for she was beginning to understand that Tom Mickle never
meant his out-spoken remarks in an unkindly spirit; "father and Uncle
Edward both laughed at me, and no wonder."
"But if you had never heard the cuckoo before you could not be
expected to know what it was," said Dinah in her matter-of-fact way.
"Everything in the country must seem strange to you, and to Gerald
too."
"Oh, Angel," broke in Dora, "there's a robin's nest with three young
ones in it in our back garden! I had nearly forgotten to tell you.
Gilbert found it yesterday; it is in a hole in the hedge close to the
river—such a snug little home, made of moss and lined with horse
hairs. You shall see it for yourself."
"Where did the robin get the horse hairs?" inquired Angel
wonderingly.
"Picked them up, of course," Tom replied, with a laugh.
"Are you going to take the young ones?" Gerald asked.
"Take the young ones!" Dora echoed in horrified tones, whilst her
sister turned a pair of reproachful eyes upon Gerald. "I should think
not indeed. We wouldn't do anything so cruel. I don't know what
Gilbert would do to any one who touched the nest, or the young ones
either!"
"Gerald didn't mean it," Tom broke in hastily. "Every one knows
robins won't live in captivity."
Gerald had not known it, but he wisely held his peace, for he had had
visions of rearing the young birds in a cage, and he now saw such
a suggestion would not meet with the approval of his companions.
"I should so much like to see the nest," Angel said, "and I wouldn't
touch it. Robins are such dear little birds! There was one that used
to come to our sitting-room window in London, and pick up crumbs from
the window-sill. He used to arrive regularly at breakfast-time—didn't
he, Gerald?"
Gerald nodded. Dora was still looking at him disapprovingly;
she could not imagine how any one could want to rob a nest, for in
her eyes a bird's home was sacred; she thought Gerald must be a very
cruel boy, but there she was wrong, for he was only thoughtless, and
had no idea of inflicting pain. Dora was very tender-hearted, so much
so indeed that if her family heard a sad story it was always—
"Don't tell Dora!" And her mother sometimes wondered how the
sensitive little girl would fight the battle of life in the years
to come.
Soon several cowslip balls had been made, and the boys being weary
of fishing, some one suggested a game of "Hunt the Hare" for a
change. Tom was the first hare, and a fine run he gave the hounds
across the meadows, over hedges and ditches, until it seemed he never
would be caught. The Mickle children, accustomed to healthy, out-door
exercise, were fleet of foot, but Gerald managed to keep pace with
Dinah and Dora; Angel, however, soon grew breathless, and fell behind
the others, who pressed hotly upon their quarry, leaving her behind.
She followed, at a slower rate, in the direction they had taken,
until, after climbing a hedge, she found herself in a narrow lane,
and sank, crimson and panting, upon a mossy bank, incapable of
proceeding further for the present. When Angel had somewhat regained
her breath, she glanced around, and saw that no one was in sight,
neither could she hear the sound of her late companions' voices,
so she decided to wait where she was for a while, and rest a bit.
It was cool and pleasant; the hedgerows were bursting into leaf, and
the beech trees on either side of the road, meeting overhead,
were tipped with foliage of the tenderest green, whilst fronds
of ferns were pushing their way through the rich mouldy soil amidst
a carpet of luxuriant moss. Angel heaved a sigh of perfect
contentment. How happy she was! She felt at that moment as though
she had not a trouble in the world. Her father was daily gaining
health and strength; there were no worrying unpaid bills to weigh
upon her mind; Uncle Edward was kindness itself, and she was growing
to love her new home; and lastly, she thought how she was to go to
the school which Dinah and Dora Mickle attended the coming term.
Her life was to be a lonely one no longer, and she was to have the
same advantages as her brother. How pleased her mother would be
if she knew. The tears rushed to her eyes, gushed forth, and ran
unheeded down her cheeks as she recalled the tones of her dead
mother's voice, and pictured the dear face she had loved so well.
Angel was so engrossed with her thoughts that she never noticed
some one approaching, till a peculiar tap-tap broke upon her ears,
and looking up hastily she perceived Gilbert Mickle swinging himself
along on his crutches.
"Good afternoon," he said, as he came in a line with the little girl.
"Good afternoon," she answered.
He paused, and looked at her inquisitively, noticing the tell-tale
tears upon her flushed cheeks and her quivering lips. The thought
entered his mind that the boys had been teasing her, for he knew
his sisters and Tom had gone to join her and her brother in the
meadows.
"You've been crying," he remarked, frowning till his heavy brows
nearly met.
"Yes," she acknowledged truthfully, glancing up rather shyly into his
handsome, ill-tempered face. She could not tell that he was feeling
sympathetic towards her. "It was very silly of me," she added, "but I
couldn't help it."
"The boys have been teasing you, I suppose? You shouldn't take any
notice of them. Tom's never happy without he's humbugging some one,
and I dare say your brother is as bad!"
"Oh no!" she exclaimed, realizing he meant his advice kindly.
"I've been having a lovely time picking cowslips, and we've been
playing 'Hunt the Hare.' I got left behind, and—"
"Is that why you've been crying?" he inquired in accents of contempt.
"Oh no, no! It was—I was thinking how happy I was, and wishing my
mother knew, and then—she is dead, you know."
She paused, having become somewhat incoherent. Her companion made no
response, though he thought he was beginning to comprehend the
situation.
"I don't suppose you can understand," she proceeded, "because your
mother is living—"
"Oh yes, I can," he interrupted. "I expect it makes you unhappy when
you think of your mother, and that's why you cried?"
"No, not because I'm unhappy, but because I miss her so. Sometimes
when I'm happiest I miss her most."
"Well, I wouldn't cry any more if I were you," he counselled, looking
puzzled at her reply. A slightly sarcastic smile crept over his face
as he continued, "Why should you cry if you are not unhappy? But,
there, I suppose being a girl you can't help piping your eye.
Girls are all the same."
Angel made no response to this, for though she was indignant,
she thought it better not to enter into an argument with Gilbert.
She felt annoyed that he should have caught her in tears; but she was
greatly surprised when his next remark showed how plainly he read
what was passing through her mind.
"I say," he said, "you're vexed I came along just now, aren't you?
You need not mind. I shan't tell the others you've been blubbering.
You were very fond of your mother, eh?"
"Oh yes! You're fond of your mother, aren't you?"
He nodded, his face softening into a smile. Then he asked if she
meant to follow the others, and receiving a reply in the negative,
inquired if she knew her way home.
"No," Angel returned, "but I think I know my way back to the meadow
where we picked the cowslips; I must go back to get my basket, and
for certain the others will return there too."
"I may as well go with you. Oh, I can climb a hedge!" he told her
as he noticed her dubious look; "if my legs are not up to much,
my crutches are strong, and I know how to use them to some purpose,
I can tell you."
She was surprised with what dexterity he managed to swing himself up
the hedge, and drop off it on to the other side. She followed with
far less agility.
"Can I assist you?" he asked sarcastically as he watched her slow,
cautious movements; "you are not such a good climber as I am,
after all!"
Angel laughingly declined his help, and scrambled over the hedge
as best she could, after which they crossed the meadow, got over
another hedge, and so on until they neared the river's side. Every
now and again they paused to listen for the others' voices, but no
sounds were to be heard except the cooing of wood-pigeons and the
lowing of cattle in distant fields. Angel made a nosegay
of buttercups and cuckoo-flowers, whilst her companion watched her
in silence.
"Are you fond of flowers?" she asked presently. "I suppose you must
be, as Dinah says you know a lot about them."
"I like them," he said, "but I don't care about gathering them;
I prefer to see them growing. When people pick flowers they mix them
together regardless of their colours; but when you see them growing,
the colours are sure to blend properly. Look at those buttercups and
cuckoo-flowers springing up side by side in the grass—yellow and pale
lilac—there's nothing to offend one's taste there. Nature doesn't
make a mistake."
"It is all so beautiful!" Angel exclaimed, her appreciative eyes
wandering over the fair landscape. "Do you know what I overheard
Miss Goodwin say to father the other day? They had been talking
of the pretty places about Wreyford, and Miss Goodwin said: 'Beauty
of any description always makes me understand God's love.' I think
I know what she meant, don't you?"
"Yes," he answered briefly.
They had now reached the spot where the boys' fishing rods and the
baskets full of cowslips lay, in safety, on the river's bank;
evidently no one had been there during the children's absence. A few
minutes later Tom's voice was heard at no great distance, shouting
lustily. The hare had outwitted the hounds, and was returning
triumphantly to the starting-point.
"Didn't you follow, Angel?" Tom gasped, as he flung himself on the
ground to regain his breath.
"Yes," she replied, "but I got behind the others and missed them,
then your brother found me, and I thought we'd better wait for you
here. I knew you'd return."
"I hope Gilbert has been making himself agreeable," Tom said in his
teasing way.
"Oh yes," Angel answered simply; at which Tom laughed heartily, and
Gilbert frowned.
"Where have you been all the afternoon, old chap?" the younger
brother inquired of the elder.
"For a walk."
"You might as well have come with us; we've had such a jolly time."
"I don't care about gathering flowers, and I like fishing still
less," said Gilbert disdainfully.
"In short, you prefer your own sweet company to ours. Oh, I say,
old fellow, don't go!" Tom cried hastily, as his brother was moving
away. "You're never going off in a huff, are you?"
"I'm not in a huff."
"No?" Tom said questioningly. "Well, then, don't be so much on your
dignity. Wait a few minutes, and by-and-by we'll all go home
together. Here come the girls. Where is Gerald, I wonder!"
Angel looked around for her brother, but he was nowhere within sight;
she concluded he would return presently.
"So you're back," Dinah remarked to Tom. "What a chase we've had
after you! We gave you too much start. Oh, there's Angel. We lost her
altogether."
"I couldn't keep up," Angel exclaimed. "Is Gerald coming?"
"No; he has gone home."
"Gone home?" echoed a chorus of voices.
"Yes," Dinah nodded. "We followed Tom ever so far, and then, when
Gerald found there was no chance of our catching him, he said
he shouldn't play any longer, and it wasn't worth while to come all
the way back here to fetch his fishing-rod; so he asked me to tell
Angel to carry it back to Haresdown House for him."
"I am sure I wouldn't do any such thing!" Gilbert exclaimed.
"The idea of his being like that!"
"Oh, I don't mind," Angel interposed hurriedly.
"I wonder you let him order you about like that," Tom cried.
The children gathered their belongings together and started for home,
Angel with an uneasy sense that her companions disapproved of her
brother's behaviour. She did not attempt to make excuses for him;
he had acted as he usually did, and studied himself. On reaching the
road which led to the town over the bridge one way, and to Haresdown
House the other, Tom declared his intention of accompanying Angel
home, and carrying Gerald's rod and her basket of flowers for her.
It was in vain for her to protest there was no necessity for him
to do so; he was persistent, so she had perforce to say good-bye
to the others, and allow Tom to go up the hill with her.
When they arrived at Haresdown House they found Gerald at the front
gate watching for his sister's return.
"What, you, Tom!" he cried in accents of surprise.
"Yes, me," Tom responded ungrammatically, as he transferred the
fishing-rod and basket into the little girl's hands. "I've brought
Angel home because you skulked away and left her," and his blue eyes
flashed indignantly as he spoke. "I wouldn't treat either of my
sisters so shabbily, nor would Gilbert!"
Gerald looked considerably taken aback, but Tom waited for no reply.
Shouting back "good-bye," he turned on his heel and ran off down the
hill.