“WHATEVER WILL THE MASTER SAY?”
“Oh! isn’t this fun, isn’t this fun?” cried Hubert and Marygold in one
breath, as by way of winding up the afternoon at the Fair, the whole
party gathered round a plentifully spread tea-table in the old fashioned
parlour of the “Cygnet” Inn.
On the whole, the entertainment had been a glorious success.
The younger children had been given into Ruth’s special keeping, whilst
the two elder boys went off with Mr. Busson, ostensibly to knock over
cocoa-nuts and shoot at stuffed pigeons and share in various similar
sports, which they considered suitable to their advanced age.
But though they returned with a cocoa-nut apiece, they each owned to
having had a turn of the “galloping horses,” and more than one go in at
the swings. To neither of these latter forms of entertainment were
Ruth’s charges admitted. And though Hubert cast longing looks at the
“merry-go rounds,” he soon forgot them for the other diversions which
came in his way.
There was a wonderful performing dog, which could tell the days of the
week; there was a big brown bear, that climbed a pole and danced a jig;
and a gold fish, the size of a herring.
This prodigy, wonderful to relate, was reported to sing like a
skylark--that is, if he had not “Happened to have caught a cold in his
head on the way to Bramblehurst and lost his singing voice for the first
time for over ten years.”
These last details of the gold-fish’s personal history were however only
furnished after the penny (paid in advance for the privilege of hearing
his song) had been safely pocketed by his mendacious owner.
A marvellous peep-show, exhibiting all the principal cities of the
world, with their “male and female celebrities, taking an airing in the
handsomest streets,” proved a huge attraction to the children.
And after the peep-show, there was the lucky-bag, with its penny dips
and marvellous possibilities.
Marygold drew a diamond brooch, and a box with the portrait of the
Prince of Wales on it. Hubert got a knife and a pincushion the latter he
intended to give to Diana; whilst Gaston drew a whistle and a shawl-pin,
with a blue bead for its head, which he at once offered to Mrs. Busson.
Then there was the gingerbread-stall, with its strutting cocks and hens,
its gilded elephants and almond-hearted knights and ladies, all very
funny to look at, the children agreed, but nicer to look at than to eat.
Faith and Phoena invested in some baskets of doubtful durability, while
Hubert made friends with a lame gipsy boy, from whom he bought a dozen
washing pegs. These he thought, would make a suitable gift for Nellie,
whom he had observed using these homely implements.
Whilst bargaining over the baskets, Phoena had kept a persistent look
out for the traces of any waif or stray, who might be stowed away in one
of the gaily painted vans, and was woefully disappointed to see none.
“You’re glad now, Gaston, that you came with us, aren’t you?” enquired
Hubert as they sat down to tea.
“But yes, I am very glad,” was the cordial reply.
“Won’t Andrew and Di be sorry that they didn’t come,” said Phil, “when
they hear all about it.”
“Rather,” said Jack, “I call it a stunning spree.”
“Yes, it is a very funny sort of place,” said Phoena, thoughtfully.
“I wish,” said Jack, “that their wretched horses were fatter.”
“Do you think that they’re werry hungry?” asked Hubert, pausing in the
act of attacking a plum bun.
“That poor thing out there looks like it,” answered Phil, pointing to a
miserable white skeleton of a pony, tethered by the roadside.
Hubert put down his cake and looked at Mrs. Busson.
“Anything wrong with the bun, my dear?” she asked.
“No,” answered Hubert, “but may I give it to the poor horse?”
Hubert was very fond of cake, but the thought of anything within his
reach that was hungrier than himself, always quenched his appetite.
“Bless your dear heart!” cried Mrs. Busson, “that mouthful of bun
wouldn’t do the poor thing any good.” Then noting Hubert’s look of
disappointment, she added, “But look here, when you’ve finished your
tea, you go out to Busson in the yard and tell him from me to ask the
ostler for sixpennyworth of oats, and then Master Jack’ll go across the
Green with you, and Master Phil too, I daresay, and help you to give
them to the poor pony.”
Charmed with this delightful prospect, Hubert finished his tea, with
equal enjoyment and alacrity, and then all the party arose from the
table to assist in the feeding of the poor white starveling.
And perhaps this closing scene was the brightest moment in all that long
bright summer afternoon.
“My word! won’t he enjoy himself!” cried Jack, who under Busson’s
directions had presented the feast of oats in a pail of water. “I bet
it’s the first time in your life, you’ve ever had such a blow out, you
wretched specimen.”
“He’s a poor, poor thing, but very ugly,” said Hubert, with more truth
than tenderness for his protegé. “Oh! Gaston, Gaston, how can you?”
For Gaston had laid his cheek against the neglected creature’s dirty
matted mane, and was stroking his untempting coat with hands as gentle
and caressing as if he were fondling some faultlessly groomed,
satin-coated pony.
“Oh! Gaston,” cried Fay, dragging him away, “he’s not fit to touch.”
“He’s so sad,” said Gaston, simply. There were tears in the boy’s big
brown eyes.
“Oh! he won’t be sad now,” said Hubert, “Mr. Busson says that he will
stop being hungry by the time he has eaten all those oats.”
“Ah! one is often sad, when one is not hungry,” said Gaston, slowly.
But no one heeded his last remark.
Ruth was running across the Green, to call them back to the Inn, at the
door of which the Gaybrook van was standing already, with old Mr. Busson
frantically waving his whip at the scattered party.
What a scramble there was to pack not only everyone, but everyone’s
newly-acquired property, into the tilted waggon.
For though Jack and Phil went off in search of their ponies, they
committed divers articles, such as cocoa-nuts, walking sticks, in great
variety, a top or two, some brilliant green performing frogs of vast
size, a rat-trap, a marvellous kite, a stuffed pigeon for target
practice, to Fay and Phoena, for the safety of which they were to hold
themselves responsible.
The homeward drive, through the long winding lanes, in the soft golden
light of the westering sun, was very delightful, if less noisy than the
morning drive had been.
After the first few miles, Hubert and Marygold fell fast asleep, the
latter on Fay’s lap. Hubert, who had yielded his place on the front
seat to Gaston--Phoena having represented to him that it was rather
selfish to monopolise it both ways--was dreaming a confusion of sights
and sounds, with his head resting on Ruth’s shoulder, whilst Fay and
Phoena were carrying on a low-voiced discussion.
“Oh! of course, you must put him down in the ledger of golden deeds,”
Fay was saying, “for he wanted to help the poor and distressed by giving
up his cake but I can’t see why Gaston should go in too.”
“Because,” said Phoena, slowly, “I think he was quite as kind.”
“Because he went and stroked that horribly dirty creature? Oh! I say
that was very dirty of him.”
“I think it was rather grand,” said Phoena, “we only thought of
comforting the poor pony’s body, but Gaston wanted to comfort his sad
heart too. For instance, I should think it was much more noble to kiss a
dirty old beggar-woman than to give her my dinner. I know at any rate,
which I’d rather _not_ do.”
“That’s true,” admitted Fay, “still I can’t understand Gaston, I don’t
think he really is a bit kind-hearted; he couldn’t hate Andrew as he
does, if he had a really good heart.”
“Of course it’s wrong to hate people,” said Phoena; “still, I’m sure
many kind people can’t help it sometimes. But just because they are
kind-hearted, they’d never be cruel to those they hate. I’m quite sure
if Gaston had the chance, he would be quite as kind to Andrew as Jack or
Phil would be, only he wouldn’t be kind so gladly.”
Fay shook her head. “When you’re as old as I am, Phoena,” she said, with
her superior wisdom, “you’ll understand more the wickedness of ha--” But
she broke off suddenly.
[Illustration: “John made a clumsy attempt to rein in his flying steed.”
_p. 169_]
The sharp clatter of quick-trotting horse’s hoofs coming towards them,
smote on their ears, and Mrs. Busson started forward with a cry.
“That’s Blackberry,” she said. “I know his trot. That means there’s
mischief at home.”
In another minute, the stout black cob, ridden by one of the farm men,
came in sight.
“John! John Honybun, what has happened?” shouted Mrs. Busson. “Where are
you off to?”
“Doctor,” was the brief reply, whilst John made a clumsy but ineffectual
attempt to rein in his flying steed.
A great consternation fell into the midst of that hitherto happy vanful.
For full thirty seconds no one spoke at all, not indeed until Blackberry
became lost to view round the corner of the long lane they were just
leaving. Then poor Mrs. Busson wailed out--
“Please God it’s not the children.”
But Phoena, with lips grown white, leant over to whisper into Fay’s ear,
“Don’t you remember we guessed that they were going to do something?”
The remainder of that drive was a very sorry affair.
Though Mr. Busson whipped his horses into a pace, which greatly
astonished those sleek, slow-going animals, it seemed to all concerned
as if the chimneys of the Farm would never come in sight. At length,
however, the old van jolted up to the door, whence they had set out so
merrily that morning.
“Please God it’s not the children,” repeated Mrs. Busson, as Libbie came
flying to meet them at the open door.
Poor Libbie, usually so trim and dainty! She looked now as if she had
been through a campaign! She was capless, her drenched hair hung loosely
over her shoulders, her face was flushed, swollen and blotched, her gown
was be-draggled and torn, her apron burnt into holes, and one hand was
tied up in rags.
“Oh! ma’am, oh! ma’am,” she cried, in piteous distress, “they’ve been
and broken through into the bee-room!”
“But speak, woman, are the children hurt?” cried Mrs. Busson.
“That’s it, that’s it, ma’am! Miss Di’s been stung that venomous, that
we’ve had to send off for the doctor. Manny’s got her into bed, and is
doing her best for her, but she’s been most _cruelly_ punished. As for
her poor eyes, it’s my belief that she’ll never see out of them again.
There, you can hear her screaming, she hasn’t left off, not for five
seconds together.”
“And Andrew?” asked Faith, whilst Mrs. Busson and Ruth flew indoors.
“Oh! he’s nothing hurt to speak of,” said Libbie, “got about twenty
stings perhaps, but Nanny’s sent him to bed and locked him into his
room, too. So he can’t take any harm after jumping into the water-tank.
But there, oh! there, what ever will the master say when he sees the
muddling mess that has been made of his house, what with all the sulphur
and brimstone that we had to burn before we could get the beasties
under, and all the buckets of water that we had to throw down, as well!
Never, no never have I seen such a set-out!”