“WHAT THE MASTER DID SAY.”
What the master did say, was far more terrible than even Libbie had
imagined possible.
“You treat Busson properly,” his wife was wont to assert, “and give him
his dues, and he’s as mild as buttermilk; but take liberties with him
and his, and you’ll see what’s in him, then. Good me! he’d crumple up a
stone wall as if it were brown paper, and snap a six-inch iron bar, like
a cobweb!
“No, I do say, Busson hasn’t got his match in all the country round,
either for good temper or bad, according as the fit is on him, for one
way or the other.”
Unfortunately, on his return from the Fair, Mr. Busson did
consider--small blame to him--that a very great liberty had been taken
with his house. Consequently, he was promptly overtaken with the fit for
“crumbling stone walls, and snapping iron bars.”
In plain English, Mr. Busson flew into a furious rage.
“Thank goodness,” sighed poor Mrs. Busson, “that Ruth has packed the
girls off to their rooms for the night, whilst Busson was still out.”
For he had remained in the yard to discharge his duties to the horses,
and thus his return to the house, and his further initiation into the
full extent of that afternoon’s doings had been delayed some time.
But as Fay and Phoena, cowered together in their bedroom, which was
directly over the parlour, where the farmer was giving free vent to his
anger, the drift, if not all the words, of his fierce displeasure,
reached the two girls very distinctly.
Their teeth chattered, and their limbs shook, but they were too
petrified with terror to shed a tear.
Jack and Phil, following the farmer indoors, a few minutes later, after
putting away their ponies, as they loved to do, beat a hasty retreat,
though their untasted supper stood ready within their reach. They were
in blissful ignorance as to the cause of the farmer’s rage, but a look
from Mrs. Busson warned them that they were not wanted, and with the
ready tact of good breeding, they had quickly vanished to their own
quarters.
“Oh, I wish,” cried Phoena, “that Ruth, or Libbie, or someone would come
and see us. It is getting so late, and it will be too dreadful it we
have to wait till to-morrow morning without knowing any more.”
“Well, we can make out something for ourselves,” said matter-of-fact
Faith. “For you can hear that Mr. Busson is evidently determined to turn
us out to-morrow morning. Just listen, now.”
“Can’t turn ’em out, you, say,” Busson was roaring. “Can’t turn who I
choose out of my own house! Well, I call that a pretty pair of walking
boots. Don’t you make any mistake about it, Missus, out they’ll go, bag
and baggage, neck and crop, leggins or no leggins, soon as ever the
sun’s up to-morrow.”
Then came the sound of pleading in a low tone from Mrs. Busson.
This was speedily cut short by the farmer’s loud voice.
“Respect for Miss Agatha, indeed! Let her teach her young ’uns to show
respect for my goods and chattels. Let her, I say, before they ever set
foot under my roof again.”
Then, after a moment’s lull, the farmer raged on anew.
“And as for that boy, this very night, I’ll give him such a thrashing as
he’ll never forget for the rest of his born days. My word! if I don’t
break a stick or two over him, my name’s not Benjamin Busson. Polly, I
say?”--this was addressed, in stentorian tones, to the girl in the back
kitchen, “where have you locked that young rascal up?”
“Oh, Busson, Busson, let him be till the morning,” the girls heard Mrs.
Busson entreating her husband, her voice shrill with alarm.
Evidently she was trying, by main force, to hold the infuriated man
back. “It will be plenty soon enough to punish him to-morrow.”
Involuntarily, Phoena thought of the scenes they had so often enacted in
their ogre games, where the pitiful ogress sought to gain time for the
luckless victims.
But how far Mrs. Busson would have succeeded or not was doubtful, if, at
that critical moment, the doctor had not appeared on the scene. His
presence produced at once a comparative calm.
“I wonder if poor Di will soon be better,” said Phoena, as they heard
Dr. Forbes going upstairs to Di’s room, whence her screams still came at
very short intervals.
Libbie had put her to bed in another part of the house.
“Do you suppose that she really will be blind?” asked Faith. “Oh, how
could she and Andrew have done such a thing!”
“I thought they were up to something,” said Phoena; “but I never
thought, after all we had said about it, that they would have done
_that_.”
“And I’m so sorry for poor Mrs. Busson,” said Fay, “it seems so hard
that she should get such a scolding for our ill-doing.”
“Yes, and after she’d been giving us such a happy afternoon. What’s
that?” added Phoena.
“Only me,” said Marygold, peeping through the door of an adjoining room,
where she was supposed to be asleep. “Is all the people downstairs in a
turkey-cock rage still, do you think?” she added, in a quivering tone.
Before anyone could answer, the door opened, and Nanny appeared.
Grim as she looked, the girls greeted her gladly.
“Oh, Nanny, do tell us what’s happening,” they implored.
“Get back into your bed _at once_, Miss Marion, if you don’t want a
slapping,” was the first utterance of the late nursery-tyrant; “you were
never trained under me, or you would know better than to run about
barefoot.”
And it was not till Marygold was tightly tucked into her bed, and the
door closed behind her, with a recommendation to open it again if she
dared, that Nanny would answer the elder girls’ questions.
“Suffering, indeed,” she said, “yes, I believe you, Miss Di is
suffering. There, if you could see her now, it would cure you of wishing
to meddle with what doesn’t concern you. It’ll be ever so long, the
doctor says, before she’s quite over it. She’ll have to be kept shut up
in a dark room for many days to come. The only wonder is, that she’s
likely to recover at all.”
“Oh, poor, dear Di!” said Faith.
“Poor Di, indeed!” echoed Nanny, indignantly; “naughty Di, that’s what
she is. But then, she and Master Andrew always were the most troublesome
pair that you could find on a long summer’s day. It’s poor Mrs. Busson,
I pity. A nice time she’s having with the farmer. He’s just beside
himself with rage, and no wonder, either. A proper pig-stye they’ve made
of all that part of his house. And if Joe Wintle hadn’t had a head on
his shoulders, I can’t think where the mischief would have stopped.”
“But,” enquired Faith, “do tell us what actually happened. What was the
bee-room? We never heard anything about it before.”
“No, and you never were meant to hear about it, either,” was the grim
rejoinder, “if those children hadn’t been prying about as they had no
right to have done, they wouldn’t have known anything of it, and all
this terrible business would never have come to pass.”
“But when you say a bee-room,” asked Phoena, “do you mean a room full of
bees? I thought bees were always kept out of doors.”
“Well, and so they always are,” said Nanny, “but that was the odd thing
about this room. Years and years ago, so long ago, that no one can
remember when, a swarm of bees took possession, first of the real roof
over that room, and then of the false roof--that space, you know,
between the outer and inner walls of the upper storey--till at last,
they ended by invading the room itself. It was used, no doubt, as an odd
sort of lumber room, never as a living room, for though it has a door
and a chimney, there’s no proper window to it. Clouds of bees are always
flying round the chimney, and very often swarms come from there. There
must be thousands and thousands of bees at home in that room now. One
gentleman, so Mrs. Busson told me, who was a visitor in this
neighbourhood, and heard of the room, was very anxious to open it at his
own risk and expense, for he was specially curious about bees and their
ways, but the farmer wouldn’t hear of it being touched. He always vowed
that it should never be disturbed in his time, as his father and
grandfather had said before him.”
“Why, of course, the risk of such a thing must have seemed dreadful,”
said Faith, in awe-struck tones.
“Risk! I should think so,” said Nanny, “there, as I said, if it hadn’t
been for Joe Wintle, I don’t believe we’d any of us been left here.”
“But what did Joe Wintle do?” enquired Faith.
“Well, you see, those children had smashed in half the lower part of the
door, so they had made a fine disturbance amongst all the bees they had
dislodged, and they all came flying about like mad. So Joe, like a wise
man, rushed down to the village, and got hold of a sheet of zinc, which
he nailed right over the broken panel of the door. He put on his regular
bee-dress first; then he fitted a thick shutter over the whole door, so
there’s no likelihood now of any more bees escaping. But, oh, the
hundreds and thousands that came buzzing out, at first, you wouldn’t
believe. Every one of us got pretty nicely stung, I can tell you.”
“Were you badly hurt, Nanny?” asked Fay, politely.
“Of course I was, Miss Faith, but a blue-bag, and some sweet oil set me
right. Poor Libbie was badly punished, her left hand is just a sight;
she worked so hard to get Miss Di free.”
“I suppose Di and Andrew were dreadfully frightened when they found out
what they had done?” enquired Phoena.
“If you’d heard their screams as we heard them down in the brew-house,
you wouldn’t have much doubt of that. Both Libbie and I thought they
must have set themselves on fire, and be calling out of the flames.”
“I suppose Di was dreadfully stung,” said Faith.
“I tell you that it was only a wonder that she didn’t die, then and
there,” said Nanny, “what with the shock, and the pain. As it is, she
hasn’t come to herself yet. But there, I repeat it, I don’t pity her,
not as I do Mrs. Busson.”
“I suppose Mr. Busson takes a long time to get over things,” said Fay.
“I should think he’d take a long time to get over _this_ thing. There,
however the poor old lady will make it right with him, I can’t think.
Never did I see anyone fly all to bits, as he’s done. ’Twouldn’t do
Master Andrew any harm to have a taste of his displeasure.”
“Oh, but he won’t beat Andrew, will he, Nanny? You won’t let him,”
implored Faith.
“I _would_ let him, gladly, if I could,” was the merciless rejoinder--as
a matter-of-fact, Nanny had taken effectual measures to prevent such a
thing happening--“only I believe that it would break Mrs. Busson’s
heart, if anyone laid a finger on him in her house, and I’m sure I don’t
want her troubles added to.”
“But,” faltered Phoena, “shall we all be sent away to-morrow?”
“More than likely. All that is, but Miss Di. I shouldn’t be surprised if
the farmer sends her to the nearest hospital. But now I must go back to
her room; I’ve promised that I’ll sit up the night with her. And the
sooner that you two get to bed, and out of the way of doing fresh
mischief, the better. Good-night to you both.”
“Good-night, Nanny,” responded the girls. They were too dejected to
resent the glaring injustice implied in her last sentence.
The next morning they woke with very heavy hearts.
“Won’t it be an awful disgrace, Phoena,” sighed Fay, “if we really are
sent back to-day. What will mother say?”
“I shall be so sorry for Mrs. Busson,” said Phoena, “because, you see,
she will be so sad if it all ends so badly. Perhaps the farmer has waked
up in a better temper.”
“I rather hope he has,” chimed in little Marygold, “for I’m werry afraid
of seeing him, if he’s still in that turkey-cock rage.”
And so, in sooth, were her elders, whose courage was at a very low ebb
when they reluctantly left the shelter of their room for breakfast.
Even Jack and Phil were unusually subdued.
They had heard the whole story from Joe Wintle, the hero of the zinc
sheet, and they had heard also how Mr. Busson had vowed that every one
of them was to be cleared off the premises that day.
“And Joe says that the farmer is a man of his word,” said Phil.
No one had seen Andrew. Jack had tried the door of his room, but had
found it still locked.
“Poor beggar, he must be having a lively time of it,” said Phil.
“Serve him right,” said Jack, “it was a dirty trick to play.”
“Hush,” said Phoena, “here comes Mrs. Busson. Oh dear, what will she be
like?”