ON THE RIVER
HOW wonderful the country seemed to the London child! Everything was
strange and beautiful. And though Juliet would not confess how
surprised she felt, yet by little looks and words her aunt and cousins
knew that she was taking in fresh ideas every minute.
They asked her how she slept. She replied that she could not sleep
well because it was so dreadfully quiet; if it had not been for the
noise of the "buses" a long way off, and those folks that came home
late and creaked their door, she would not have been able to go to
sleep at all. "My ears was all stretched like," said Juliet, "and
wanted something to work on."
When they told how the distant _buses_ was the roar of the weir, and
the late-comers a party of gentlemen managing the lock for themselves,
she tried to appear as if she quite understood, but she did not
succeed.
"Some of them stay out late and let themselves through at 2 A.M., and
some of them get up early and let themselves through at 3 A.M., but it
is none of my business to get out of bed for pleasure-boats." Thus
said Mr. Rowles.
"Who are _they_?" asked Juliet.
"Oh, the folks on the river. You'll see plenty of them if you stay
here long enough."
Juliet was not much the wiser; she had heard of mermaids, and thought
at first that the folks on the river must be of that race of beings.
But she waited to see.
Then Mrs. Rowles said that Juliet must make herself useful, and might
begin by fetching some water from the well.
Juliet did not know what a well might be; but she took up a jug and
went out to the riverside. There was a boat pulled up to the bank on
the side of the island away from the towing-path, and as all she
thought about was the fact that she was to bring water, she climbed
into the boat, over the thwarts, and up to the stern. As she crept
along she saw in the shadowed water at the side of the boat a vast
number of little fish playing together, and, like any other child, she
wanted to catch some of them. She dipped the jug down among them, as
she supposed, but alas! instead of winning the minnows she lost the
jug! The handle grew slippery when wet, and away it went out of her
hand, falling with a crash on a big stone, and lying in fragments on
the gravel beneath the water.
Juliet was in consternation. "I say, what a scolding I shall get! Even
mother used to scold a little sometimes when I smashed so much
crockery. And Aunt Emma--and that dreadful cross Uncle Rowles--!"
The child gasped for breath, but returned indoors where her aunt was
putting away the remains of the breakfast.
"Why, Juliet, child, you look scared. Have you fetched the water?"
"No, aunt; 'cause I've broke the jug."
"Broke the jug! What jug?"
"The jug I took to get the water in. As soon as ever I put it in the
river it just slipped away and went into pieces."
"Dear, dear! Which jug was it?"
"It was a yellow one with blue flowers on it."
"Oh, that one!" and Mrs. Rowles's face cleared. "If it was only that
old one with the broken spout and the cracked handle I really don't
care a bit."
"I am always so unlucky with crockery," said Juliet. "I've broke
enough in my time to pave Cheapside--jugs and cups and basins."
"Oh, child!" said her aunt, shocked at the exaggeration.
"That's what the people in our house used to say every time I broke
anything. I'm always unlucky."
"Well, never mind; this time you've been very clever. That yellow jug
was horrid ugly, and being shabby at the spout and the handle, I often
wished it would get itself broken instead of the pretty new ones. I'm
quite glad you've broken it; I think you were very clever to break
that one."
So said the kind aunt, hoping to soothe Juliet's sorrow for her
awkwardness and carelessness. This sort of praise was quite new to the
child. To be praised instead of reproved for her stupidity, to be met
with smiles rather than sighs, was something so uncommon that Juliet
almost believed that she really had done a clever and useful deed.
After a few minutes she quite believed it, and held up her head,
taking credit for her breakage which was so clever and so amusing.
Then Mrs. Rowles called Emily and bade her take Juliet to the well and
show her how to draw a bucket of water. A loud scream was heard, and
Mrs. Rowles's heart almost ceased beating, so fearful was she that one
of the children had fallen into the well. She ran out to the back of
the house, and saw the two girls standing together with consternation
on their faces. It appeared that Juliet had insisted on lowering the
bucket by the windlass, and that, by some awkward mischance, she had
let it fall off the hook, and there it lay at the bottom of the well,
and there seemed to be no means of getting it back again.
This time Mrs. Rowles could not find any consolation for Juliet on the
subject of her stupidity.
"I always do let things drop," said the child, keeping back tears of
vexation. "Once I let baby drop, and once I let a loaf drop in the mud
that the scavengers had swept to the side of the road. I'm too stupid
and awkward for the country. I'd better go back to London where it
does not show so much among such a many more awkward people."
Mrs. Rowles put aside all Juliet's remarks, and Emily was anxious to
know what kind of things "scavengers" might be, and when Mr. Rowles
could be spared from the lock he brought a punting pole, and after a
good deal of trouble fished up the bucket. He called Juliet a little
idiot; and Philip remarked that girls never could do anything,
especially London ones, who are always so conceited and stuck-up.
Poor Juliet felt very unhappy. There was no use in trying to do
better; all her relations were joined together against her. Her father
and mother had sent her away because she was so stupid, and now her
uncle and aunt did not want her. Well, she did not care. She did not
ask them to have her on a visit; they must put up with her ways if
they chose to have her.
"Juliet," said Mrs. Rowles, "do you know what radishes are?"
"Yes."
"Then will you pull some from the lot that are growing near the
pig-sty? I like the white ones best."
Juliet made no answer, but marched out into the garden and presently
returned with a bunch of turnips.
"Oh, my dear child, but those are not radishes! You did not find those
near the pig-sty."
"No."
"I am afraid you did not attend to what I said. I am sorry you have
pulled these. Your uncle will be vexed."
"I don't care," said Juliet; "you should not send me on your errands."
These unkind words made Mrs. Rowles feel very sad. Grown people often
make children unhappy, and children make grown people unhappy very,
very often.
It was quite certain that this sullen girl who would not take the
trouble to do better, caused a great deal of annoyance to her
relations. But they did not intend to get tired of her until they had
given her every chance of correcting some of her faults. On the Sunday
they dressed her in some of Emily's good clothes, and they were glad
to see that she looked nice in them. She went to church in the morning
with her aunt; Philip and Emily were with the Sunday-schools. In the
evening Mr. Rowles was able to go to church, having engaged a young
man to look after the lock for a couple of hours.
Philip thought himself capable of managing locks and boats and punts
and everything else. When they came back from church that evening he,
with the two girls, got into the old boat from which Juliet had
dropped the poor yellow jug.
"Give us a row, Phil," said Emily.
"All right, here goes'" he replied, and he untied the boat from the
post to which she was fastened, and took up the sculls and off they
went.
It was a lovely summer evening. Mr. and Mrs. Rowles stood on the bank
of their island and watched the young voyagers. Philip was quite used
to boating and they had no fears. He hardly needed to pull at all, the
stream took them down so quickly. Juliet's ill-humour gave way when
all around was so delightful. She saw the clear, rippling water, and
the deep green shade under the trees, and the withies waving their
tops, and forget-me-nots lying in blue patches under the bank; and
larks were trilling overhead, and wagtails dabbling on the shelving
gravel tow-path.
"Oh!" she said sighing, "it is beautiful!"
They were now coming up the stream again, and keeping out of the
current under the bank of an island. There were some swans lying among
the withies and rushes.
"What are those great white birds?" asked Juliet.
"Don't you know swans when you see them?" was Philip's retort.
"No; I don't know almost nothing."
"Well, then, I can tell you that a blow from a swan's wing will break
a man's leg, and a peck from a swan's bill would knock out both your
eyes. Hie! Swish!"
And Philip pulled the boat as close as he could to the swans, who
instantly grew very angry, and stretched out their long necks, hissing
loudly, and flapped their great wings on the water.
Emily gave a shriek, and threw herself to the further side of the
boat, in terror lest the swans should strike her or peck at her. Her
sudden movement sent the boat deep into the water on her side, and
Juliet thought they would be upset. But she was not so frightened as
to lose her wits. She did not like the swans, but the danger of being
drowned was greater than that of being pecked; and to keep the boat
steady she leaned over on the side of the birds, while Philip, also
alarmed, gave a few strong strokes, and placed them beyond further
peril.
"Emily," he said, "how could you be so stupid? Don't you know that you
must always sit still in a boat?"
"Yes," she answered, half crying; "but you frightened me so about the
swans."
"Girls never can take a bit of fun. And if Juliet had not leaned the
other way so as to balance you, we might all have been in the water,
and the swans would have got you, and you might never have seen
Littlebourne Eyot again."
At this Emily cried outright.
Juliet asked Philip what he meant by an eyot. He told her that an
island in the Thames is called an _eyot_ or _ait_; and he also said
that she had more sense than most girls, and if she liked he would
teach her how to row, which some women can do almost as well as men.
"I should think I could do it without being taught," said Juliet.
"No, you could not. You would catch crabs, and you would feather in
the air, and you would run into the banks, and go aground on the
shallows, and be carried over the weirs."
"I should not care," said Juliet. "I could eat the crabs, and make a
pillow of the feathers; I am not afraid."
"You have a good deal of pluck for a girl," said Philip; "but don't
you get playing with boats, or you will come to grief."
"I sha'n't ask _your_ leave," said Juliet.
"I sha'n't give it," replied Philip with a rough laugh.
And Juliet spoke no more, but knitted her brows fiercely.
When the children landed at the lock, and told of the adventure with
the swans, Mrs. Rowles was profuse with praise of Juliet's presence of
mind. In fact she was almost too profuse, and wishing to encourage her
niece ran the risk of making her conceited. Juliet's brows grew
smooth, her eyes brightened, her head rose higher.
"Oh, well," she said aside to Emily, "it is not so difficult to manage
a boat if you have your wits about you. When people give way and lose
their wits, then it is dangerous, if you like."
Which remarks seemed to Emily extremely sensible, but to Philip, who
overheard them, extremely foolish.
During the next week Mrs. Rowles felt that Juliet was improving in
temper and conduct; praise was doing the child good she thought. She
did not know that it was also doing her harm.
One day a letter and a parcel came for Juliet. The letter was from her
mother, full of good news. Mr. Mitchell had gone to work again; she
had herself made a summer mantle for one of Miss Sutton's friends, and
had been paid four and sixpence for it. Albert had got a rise of a
shilling a-week; and baby's cheeks were getting to have quite a
colour. Mrs. Mitchell was sure that Juliet was very good and very
happy, and making herself useful to her aunt and uncle. And when they
could spare her to come back to London she must get a little place,
and earn her own living like a woman. If Mrs. Mitchell had any fresh
troubles since Juliet left home, she did not mention them in her
letter.
Then the parcel--ah! that came from Miss Sutton and some of her
friends at the West-end. It contained nice articles of clothing. A
pair of strong boots, two pink cotton pinafores, some few other
things, and a clean, large-print prayerbook. Juliet's face grew so
happy over her letter and her presents that, to Mrs. Rowles surprise,
it became quite pretty. This was the first time that she had perceived
how the girl's ill-tempered countenance spoilt her really good
features.
"Is she like her father or her mother?" Mr. Rowles inquired of his
wife. "But there! she can't be like her father--a pasty-faced, drowsy
fellow, always sleeping in the daytime, and never getting a bit of
sunshine to freshen him up. Not like some of them, camping out and
doing their cooking in the open air, and getting burnt as black as
gipsies. There they are--at it again!"
And he went out to the lock.
There were two boats waiting to go down. The people in one of them
were quite unknown to Rowles, but in the second was that middle-aged
man who was so determined to learn to row.
"How are you getting on, sir?" asked Rowles. "Easier work now, ain't
it?"
The man seemed unwilling to reply. He had an oar, and with him was a
youth in a suit of flannels pulling the other oar, while on the seat
sat an elderly gentleman steering.
"Did you find it very hard at first?" said the lad to his colleague.
"Yes, I did, Mr. Leonard; and I don't find it any too easy now."
The old gentleman laughed. "Well, Roberts, take it coolly going down
stream, and reserve your energies for coming up. I say, lock-keeper, I
am told that you let lodgings; have you any rooms vacant?"
"My missus has two rooms, sir," replied Rowles, as he leaned on the
great white wooden handle while the lock was emptying through the
sluices of the lower gates. "There is a gentleman who generally comes
in August, being an upper-class lawyer and can't leave his work till
the best of the summer is over, just like printers who lie in bed all
day and work all night."
"Don't say a word against printers," said the old gentleman laughing.
"That won't do, will it Leonard?"
"No, father," the youth replied.
"So, as I was saying," Rowles went on, "he comes here every August and
September, and letters come by the bushel with Q.C. on them; and young
Walker--the postman, you know--would just as soon he staid in London.
But before August and after September Mrs. Rowles has a tidy little
sitting-room and bed-room, if so be as you know anyone would be likely
to take them."
"I was only thinking," said the gentleman, "that the hotel is rather
too expensive--"
By this time the boat had floated near to the lower gates.
"Hold her up! hold her up!" cried Rowles, "or I can't open the gates.
Not you, sir," he added to the stranger who was sculling the other
boat; "but you, I mean, Mr. Robert."
For Rowles had caught the name of the servant who was so persevering
on the river.
"All right," returned Roberts; "give Mr. Burnet the ticket, please."
Rowles stooped down and gave the old gentleman the ticket for the
lock, and then the two boats passed out into the open stream. The
lock-keeper went indoors to ask if dinner was ready.
"Quite ready," was Mrs. Rowles's cheerful reply. "Call the children
in, will you, Ned?"
He went out by the backdoor into the garden, and saw how the sky was
clouding up from the south-west. "Rain coming; bring on the
scarlet-runners and the marrows. Phil-lip! Emil-ly! Jule-liet! Come in
to dinner."
Then Philip appeared, hot and tired from digging; and Emily came with
some needlework at which she had been stitching in the intervals of
watching her brother. The holidays had begun, and they were thoroughly
enjoyed by these children.
"And where is Juliet?"
"I don't know," answered Emily.
"Well, you must bring her in. Mother says dinner is quite ready."
"I think she must be in our bed-room," and Emily went upstairs to seek
her cousin, and to wash her own dusty little hands.
But Juliet was not in the attic.
"Then she must have gone into the lodgers' rooms," said Mrs. Rowles.
But there was no sign of her in those shut-up rooms; no sign of her
anywhere in the house, nor in the garden, nor on the eyot at all, nor
on the towing-path as far as could be seen.
"What can have become of her?"