When visitors went for the first time to Usk, and their hostesses
wished to imbue them with a sense of the beauties of the place, they
generally said, ‘Oh, let us drive to Panty-cuckoo Farm! You must
not leave Usk without seeing Panty-cuckoo Farm! The sweetest, most
picturesque old place you ever set eyes on; quite a leaf out of the
past ages. Sir Archibald Bowmant says it dates from the fourteenth
century. And Mrs Llewellyn is such a quaint old woman. You don’t meet
with such people in her class now-a-days. We always have our eggs and
butter and pork from her, and she will give us a lovely cup of tea,
with the best of cream. You must come!’
And the visitors usually agreed that their hostess’s description of
the farm and its inhabitants had not been exaggerated, and came back
delighted with what they had seen. They drove for some way out of the
town of Usk, along an undulating road, almost overshadowed by the
meeting branches of lofty elm and oak trees, and fringed by hedges,
fragrant at this time of year with meadowsweet and climbing travellers’
joy and wild roses. A sudden curve in the road brought them to a wide,
white gate, which led by a most precipitous pathway to the farmhouse.
On either side this pathway were placed large, whitewashed blocks of
stone, to enable the wheels of cart or carriage to keep from rolling
into the little trench by which it was bordered. On one side the trench
or ditch was a large orchard stretching away beyond where the eye
could reach, and well stocked with apple, and pear, and cherry trees.
Beneath their shade were numerous coops of hens, with their broods of
little white chickens scattered round them like fallen blossoms of
May; and flying like the wind at their mother’s call, as the black
porkers, for which Farmer Llewellyn was famous, came grunting behind
each other, eating the windfalls, and turning the refuse over with
their ringed snouts. Opposite to the orchard was a plot of grass,
which ran along the side of the house, and was decorated by garden
beds, filled with carnations, lilies, mignonette, geraniums, and such
common sweet-smelling flowers. This part of the house had been built
subsequently to the original portion, and had a side entrance of its
own beneath a little porch covered with honeysuckle and clematis. It
consisted of only two rooms, and as the farmer’s family had never
consisted of more than his two daughters, Mrs Llewellyn had been in the
habit of letting these rooms to casual visitors to Usk who required
a lodging for a few nights. Especially had they been at the service
of Sir Archibald Bowmant during the shooting season, as he often had
more bachelors staying at Usk Hall than he could accommodate, and
knew he could trust their comfort with safety to his old tenant, Mrs
Llewellyn. Sir Archibald’s woods skirted the road opposite Panty-cuckoo
Farm, so that his guests had only to cross the park to gain their
nightly lodgings, and so much trust had Mrs Llewellyn in her landlord’s
visitors, that when her rooms were occupied she let the young gentlemen
come and go as they liked, without holding any inquisitorial espionage
over their proceedings. But this wing of the house had nothing to do
with the farm itself; visitors to the Llewellyns drove straight down
the precipitous drive till they turned round at the foot to face the
front of the farm, which consisted of a low, rambling building, of dark
red brick, with a thatched roof. Before it was a prim, old-fashioned
strip of ground, guarded by a row of eight box trees, cut in the shape
of peacocks. On the walls of the house were a magnificent magnolia, and
some plants of the crimson pyrus japonica, which gave it a wonderfully
warm appearance. As soon as carriage wheels were heard, Mrs Llewellyn
usually opened the door and came down the bricked path to welcome
her visitors. She would never hear of their leaving before they had
partaken of her tea and cream. The parlour was entered immediately
from the front door, and was wainscotted half-way to the ceiling with
rich, dark oak, of which the ceiling itself was formed, divided into
squares, with a plain but different device carved in each. The windows
of this room were lattice-paned, and contained window-seats in the
shape of oak settles, which opened like boxes to store the house linen.
The fireplace was a mass of carving, without any mantelpiece, but a
wide range below for logs, and iron dogs on either side to support
them. Mrs Llewellyn much prided herself on this parlour. She knew
the value and beauty of it as much as anybody, though she sometimes
grumbled at its inconveniences, and said she would exchange it any day
for a modern-built house. It opened into a wide, bricked passage, or
ante-room, where the farmer hung his coats, and a table stood piled
with the prayer-books of the family, ready to be distributed when
church time came round again. Nell’s still lay amongst them. Her mother
often sighed when she accidentally touched it; sometimes she had been
seen to raise it furtively to her lips before she laid it down again.
It was outside this ante-chamber that the two rooms had been added
that were occasionally let as lodgings, and the door, which originally
had opened from it to the garden, now led to them. Visitors passed
through it to the dairy, where the shelves were piled with the year’s
cheeses, and marble slabs held the mounds of fresh butter, waiting
to be made into rolls or pats by the rosy-cheeked dairymaid, and the
pans were standing covered with thick, rich, yellow cream, such as Mrs
Llewellyn was famed for all the country side. This dairy led across
a covered-in yard to the baking-house, and in the centre of the yard
stood a well, centuries old, with an Elizabethan cross surmounting its
quaint, arched roof. In fact, there was no end to the curiosities in
Panty-cuckoo Farm, and ladies with purses full of money had tried over
and over again to induce the farmer and his wife to part with some of
their bits of blue china, and yellow lace, and old wood carving, that
they might carry them back to adorn their drawing-rooms in Kensington
or Westminster. But the Llewellyns were steadfast in their courteous
refusals. No amount of coin would have made them sell the little relics
that adorned their rooms, and had come down to them from unknown
ancestors. They would as soon have sold their own flesh and blood.
There was something about these people above the general run of farmers
and their wives. Countrified they necessarily were, but not vulgar nor
common, and even in the lowly position they occupied they managed to
infuse so much dignity that even their superiors recognised it, and met
it with respect. It was rather an important occasion with Mrs Llewellyn
when we are first introduced to her, for her daughter Hetty was coming,
with her husband and several of her new relations, to take tea at
Panty-cuckoo Farm for the first time since her return from London, and
her mother was eager to do her honour. Mrs Llewellyn had evidently been
a very handsome woman in her youth, and as she moved about her rooms,
clad in her gala dress of grey merino, with a white muslin kerchief
pinned across her bosom, and a large cap covering her iron-grey hair,
it was evident from whom poor Nell had inherited the beauty that had
proved such a misfortune to her. Tall and upright, with a fresh colour
in her face, and her hazel eyes beaming with expectation and pride in
her table, Mrs Llewellyn looked quite a picture as she moved about
her room and arranged the feast for her expected guests. The brown
bread and fresh butter, the cream and new-laid eggs, the honeycomb and
home-made preserves, the cut ham and water-cresses, made up a picture
of beauty that any housewife might have been proud of; and Farmer
Llewellyn chuckled with satisfaction as he sat in one of the window
settles and watched the tempting display.
‘That’s right, wife!’ he exclaimed, ‘stuff them well. You’ll get more
friends through their stomachs than you’ll ever do through their
hearts.’
‘Oh, Griffith,’ she replied, ‘that’s a poor way of looking at it; not
but what a good meal’s a good thing after all. But I shouldn’t like
the Owens to go home and say they hadn’t had enough to eat. And it’s
our Hetty’s first visit, too,’ and here Mrs Llewellyn heaved a deep
sigh.
‘What’s up now?’ said her husband. ‘You can’t expect to keep your girls
with you for ever, you know, Mary; and William Owen is as good a lad as
ever stepped in shoe leather, and will keep our Hetty well. We might
have gone further and fared worse for a husband for her.’
‘Oh, yes, I know that, father, and I’m quite satisfied. I like Will
myself. He’s like a son to me. No, I wasn’t thinking of Hetty at all,
but of our Nell. I’ve been thinking of her a deal lately. I don’t seem
as if I could get her out of my mind. It seems so hard that Hetty
should see her and not I. Five years is a long time not to set eyes on
one’s own child. Sometimes the longing for a sight of her is so bad, I
feel as if I must go up to London, if I walk every step of the way.’
‘Oh, that’s the way the crow flies,’ chuckled the farmer. ‘You’re
jealous of your daughter, are you? You’ll be worrying me to take you a
second honeymoon tour next. _You_ want to see London town, now.’
‘Oh, Grif, how I wish I could, not for the sake of the sights, you
know. The only sight I want is that of my girl. If I had ever thought
that servants were such slaves up there, I’d have cut her legs off
before she should have left Usk. My pretty Nell! If she goes and
marries away from me, where, perhaps, I may never have a glimpse of
her, or her little ones, it would drive me crazy.’
‘Come now, mistress!’ exclaimed the farmer in his old-fashioned way,
‘you must just put off your fit of the mopes for a bit, for here are
all your guests coming down the dell in their wedding bravery. Here’s
Hetty, blooming like a rose, and trying to look as if nobody had ever
been married in the world before her. How are you, my little bride,
and how are you, William, my lad? Mind the step, Mrs Owen, ma’am, for
it’s broken at the edge. (You mind me to have that set right, Mary!)
Well, farmer, you look famous, and so does Hugh here. I went to hear
you spouting last Sunday night, lad, and you have the gift of the gab
and no mistake. You made my wife, here, cry. You hit so neatly on her
favourite sins.’
‘Oh, no, Hugh, you won’t believe that, I hope,’ cried Mrs Llewellyn,
blushing like one of her daughters. ‘Father’s only chaffing you. It was
looking at you and thinking of my Nell that made me cry. The sight of
you brings back the time so plain, when you and she used to play and
quarrel all day long. You were main sweet on her then, and used to call
her your little wife. Ay, but how glad I should be if she had stayed at
home like my Hetty and married in Usk. My heart is very sore sometimes,
when I think of her so far away and I not near her, in sickness or
trouble. Sometimes I fancy I’ll never set eyes on her again.’
‘Oh, mother, you mustn’t say that,’ interposed Hetty, ‘for Nell
promised Will and me that as soon as ever she got a holiday she should
come back to see us all at Usk. But Lord Ilfracombe has gone abroad
and left her in charge of everything, so she can’t possibly leave the
house just yet.’
‘In charge of everything? Doesn’t that seem strange?’ said the mother,
with a proud smile, ‘My careless Nell! Lord Ilfracombe must think a
deal of her to trust her like that.’
‘Oh, he _does_ think a deal of her, mother. Anyone could see that. He
must give her heaps and heaps of money. You should have seen how she
was dressed. Oh, lovely! And her hair was done just like a lady’s,
and when we had tea with her, the footman waited on us as if we had
been the owners of the house, and he brought the tea up on a beautiful
silver tray and we sat in the best room, and it was like failyland,
wasn’t it, Will?’
‘I hope Nell did not do anything she ought not,’ remarked the prudent
mother. ‘I hope she won’t get into a scrape for this.’
‘Just what I said,’ laughed Hetty; ‘but Nell said Lord Ilfracombe is so
good-natured that if he came back, sudden-like, he’d only smile and
say,--“That’s right, go on and enjoy yourselves.” And a gentleman who
came and spoke to us when we were at the play, and sent us the most
beautiful ices, talked as if Lord Ilfracombe thought all the world of
our Nell; didn’t he, Will?’
‘Ay, that’s so,’ acquiesced Will.
The farmer and his wife, all unconscious of wrong, rather bridled at
this information, but Hugh Owen looked grave and his dark eyes seemed
to question eagerly for more. This last was rather a remarkable young
man, both outwardly and inwardly. From a child he had been a student,
and now might almost have been termed a scholar, though a self-taught
one. His face was so earnest and introspective in its expression, that
it made one forget that his features were not strictly handsome. His
sallow complexion, dark grey eyes, large nose, and thin-lipped mouth,
were far less attractive than his younger brother’s fair skin and Saxon
characteristics, but no one looked twice at William Owen, while few
could forget Hugh. His tall, gaunt frame, nervous hands, and straight
hair, all told the same tale, of a man who had used his intellect more
than his muscle, and cared for his brains before his body. From a child
Hugh Owen had felt the power within him, and had delighted to mount a
rostrum of his own erection, and hold forth to his playmates on any
subject which occupied his mind at the moment. As he grew into a lad,
he scorned farm work and only wanted to be left alone with his books
and studies, until his father, not knowing what to make of him, and
fearing he was ‘daft,’ consulted the minister about him. This minister
was a Wesleyan, an earnest, devout man, though rather unlearned, who
saw in young Owen’s proclivities only a ‘call’ to the ministry, and
persuaded his proud parents to send him to school at Newport, whence,
after several years of study, he returned to Usk and was elected to
take part in the services of the dissenting chapel. But, added to his
ministerial duties, Hugh Owen had taken to preaching at the corners
of the bye-roads and on the common, or wherever he could collect an
audience or obtain a hearing. Some people said he was mad, others, that
he was a saint. His parents and friends thought the latter, but he
was only a young enthusiast, whose whole heart and soul and mind were
filled with one idea, with which he panted to imbue the whole world. As
Hetty chattered about Nell, and what she had done and said in London,
Hugh’s eyes became strained and anxious, and his attention was wholly
enchained.
‘I never heard before,’ he said presently, ‘of maid-servants drinking
their tea off silver trays and sitting in the best rooms.’
‘That’s only because you don’t know anything of London life,’ cried
Hetty, tossing her little head. ‘Nell says it’s quite different from
the country, and anyone can see so for themselves. Why, the gentleman
who met us at the play (I forget his name) spoke to our Nell just as
if she was a lady, and took off his hat when we drove away in the cab,
as if we were duchesses. Oh, it was lovely; I wish we lived in London
always.’
‘You’ve had quite enough of town life for awhile, my lass,’ observed
her father. ‘Your head would be turned with much more. You’ll be
expecting mother to give you your tea on a silver tray next.’
‘Oh, never mind the tray!’ exclaimed Mrs Llewellyn impatiently. ‘If
it had been of gold, it couldn’t have been too good for our Nell. But
tell me how she looked, Hetty. Is she quite well and bonny? Does she
seem happy in this grand place? Does she have plenty to eat, or did you
see any signs of fretting after the old home in my girl? for if so,
I’ll have her back, ay, if she was housekeeper to twenty lords, or the
Prince of Wales himself; God bless him.’
‘Oh, no, mother, don’t you worry. Nell is as happy as happy can be. I’m
sure of that. Of course she’d like to come home for a bit. I could see
the tears in her eyes when she spoke of you and father--’
‘God bless my lass,’ cried her mother, interrupting her. ‘When you say
that, I feel as if I couldn’t rest another night without she came home.
What a pretty thing she was at sixteen--you remember her, Hugh, with
her bright hair streaming down her back, and her eyes dancing with
fun and mischief. The prettiest lass in all Usk, or for miles around.
Everybody said so. Didn’t they, Hugh?’
‘Yes, Mrs Llewellyn, you are right; they did so,’ replied Hugh.
‘A bit wild and wilful-like, but no harm in her,’ continued the mother.
‘And might have married well if she had stayed here. Well, I miss
her sorely, and always have done so, and shall all the more now that
Hetty’s gone and got married. I’ve never seen the girl that was a patch
on my Nell.’
‘Now, mother, suppose you stop your bemoanings and pass round the
griddle cakes,’ interposed the farmer. ‘I don’t call it much of a
compliment to William and Hetty here, for you to amuse us with praises
of our Nell. You heard what Het says, that she means to come to Usk
the first holiday she gets, and what do you want more? She might have
married and gone out to America, and then you’d have had to do without
her altogether.’
‘God forbid,’ said his wife, as she busied herself with looking after
her guests.
They were soon started on another subject. Farmer Owen had had an
uncommonly heavy crop of hay that year, and as most husbandmen had
lost theirs through the drought, his good luck, and the way he had
secured it, formed a grand subject of conversation between him and Mr
Llewellyn. The little bride had not half exhausted her tales of the
wonders she had been introduced to in London, and they were all in
full chatter, asking questions and answering them, when Hugh Owen said
suddenly,--
‘Who’s this coming down the glen?’
All eyes were instantly directed towards the steep hill which led to
the farmhouse, and down which a tall female figure was walking with
rather slow footsteps.
‘It’s a lady,’ quoth Mrs Llewellyn, wonderingly. ‘Whoever can she be?
It’s a stranger. I’ve never seen her in Usk before.’
The woman was dressed very plainly, but she seemed to wear her clothes
differently from the common herd. She raised her head every now and
then, expectantly, and yet timidly, and during one of these movements
Hetty caught sight of her face.
‘Mother,’ she screamed, as she jumped up from her seat, ‘it’s our Nell!’
‘_Nell!_’ echoed her mother. ‘Never!’
But Hetty had already left the house, and, meeting the advancing
figure, had thrown both her arms around it.
‘Nell! Nell!’ she cried. ‘Oh, Nell, we were just talking of you. What
joy it is to welcome you home.’
She seized her two hands and dragged her along till she stood in the
midst of the astonished group.
‘Mother, can’t you see? It is our Nell. She has got her holiday at
last, and has come to spend it with us.’
‘Yes, at last!’ exclaimed Nell, as she fell into her mother’s opened
arms. ‘Mother, I’ve come home, and I never mean to leave you again.’
At first, in their delight and surprise at her unexpected appearance,
they could do nothing but kiss her and gaze at her; but when their
excitement had somewhat subsided, all their anxiety was to hear why
Nell had not given them warning of her return, and when she was going
back to her situation again.
‘Going back,’ she echoed, with a shrill laugh; ‘I’m _never_ going back
at all, mother. I’m going to live with you now, and help you as Hetty
used to do. I shall never go back unless you tell me you don’t want me.’
Her mother’s only answer was to cry over her, and say how much she
had longed for her return, but Hetty was gazing at her sister with
amazement. What had happened to her since they had parted in London?
Nell was as pale as death; she almost looked thinner than when she had
seen her last; her eyes were abnormally large, and there were dark
lines under them. Above all, there was a harsh shrillness in her voice
which she had not noticed before.
‘My darling lass,’ said Mrs Llewellyn, ‘if you wait till your father
and I bid you go, you’ll stay here for ever. But have you been ailing,
Nell? Hetty, here, said you were looking so well. But you don’t look so
to me. London air can’t agree with you to leave your cheeks so white
and your lips so pale. Are you sure you are quite well, my lass? If
not, your mother will nurse you till you are. She hasn’t lost much of
her good looks, has she, Hugh?’
‘Who’s that?’ said Nell, turning round. ‘What, my old sweetheart?
How are you, Hugh? How are you Mrs Owen? I didn’t know mother had a
tea-party, you see, or I would have come to-morrow instead of to-day.’
Then she suddenly burst into a wild fit of laughter.
‘Isn’t it funny to be sitting amongst you all again? I feel as if I
had never left home. Ah, it’s a long time ago, isn’t it, mother? a
long, weary while. But it’s over now, thank God, over for good and
all. I mean to stay at dear Panty-cuckoo Farm for the rest of my life,
and look after the dairy and the baking and the washing, and let dear
mother sit down and rest. You’ll think I’ve forgotten all about it,
mother, but you’ll find you’re mistaken. In two or three days, I shall
have forgotten that I ever left Usk, and be as good a farm maid as
ever.’
‘Oh, Nell, my girl, you know how glad I shall be to have your help, but
what made you think of coming home to give it me? I’m fairly puzzled
what put it in your mind. Hetty understood you weren’t likely to get
leave for a long time to come.’
‘What put it in my mind?’ repeated Nell, with a repetition of her
shrill laugh. ‘Why, Hetty to be sure. She drew such a pitiful picture
of mother, left without a daughter to help in her dairy work, that I
couldn’t resist the temptation to run home and give you all a surprise.
Aren’t you glad to see me, father? Your bonnie girl, as you used to
call me. I remember you were vexed enough when I decided to go out to
service. You threatened to lock me up on bread and water.’
‘Glad to have you back, lass? Ay, more glad than I can say. But I
confess you’ve taken us rather by surprise. What did your master say to
your leaving him in such a hurry? Wasn’t he a bit put out? Hetty said
he had left you in charge of the house.’
Nell flushed suddenly like a scarlet rose.
‘So he did, but he’s altered his plans, and isn’t coming home now for a
long time. And so, as a servant isn’t a slave, I’ve given him warning.
He told me in his last letter I could leave London when I liked, and I
liked to do so now--now, at once. I couldn’t stay. I wanted my mother.
I wanted Panty-cuckoo Farm. I wanted you all--and rest, rest!’
She uttered the last words almost like a sigh. As they escaped her lips
she turned and caught Hugh Owen’s eyes fixed on her. Nell threw back
her head defiantly, as though she dared him to guess at anything she
thought or felt.
‘Rest,’ said Mrs Llewellyn sympathisingly, ‘of course you want rest, my
poor child, and you shall have it here. They’ve worked you too hard in
London. I was afraid of it when I heard what Hetty had to tell me about
you. But you shall rest now, my bonnie lass, you shall rest now!’