AFTERNOON TEA IN CRANFORD
Christmas was over, and Rose and Ruth were sure there had never been one
more full of fun nor more unexpectedly rich in “just-what-I-wanted”
presents since time, or at least all of time they were personally
interested in, began.
In the first place, they had each had a new saddle given them, having
always, until now, to make shift as well as might be with two discarded
ones no longer fit for heavy use. They almost took their new saddles to
bed with them, so rapturous was their delight in them.
“Don’t they smell good?” Ruth declared, sniffing at hers as though it
were a flower.
Rose agreed. “They are the most beautiful saddles in the world, Ruth.
Oh, dear, I wish the weather would give us a chance to try them on the
broncos!”
But so far it hadn’t, for Christmas had come in with a storm, and the
snow was too deep for riding. So the two girls tried their new
snow-shoes, second to the splendid saddles in the joy they created. They
got a few tumbles in the soft snow, and lay helpless with laughter till
their father pulled them up and started them fresh. But before long they
were expert enough to get along without assistance, and even to race
each other.
There had been other gifts; no one had expressed a wish, it seemed, all
the year, which had not been remembered. And there had been a tree and a
joyous dinner ending with a real English plum pudding, such as Marmie
had learned to make when she was a little girl in England. Dad had been
gloriously happy over the sweater Rose and Ruth had spent months in
knitting for him, and Marmie simply tickled to death over a patent
dish-washer they had got for her, assisted by Dad. Oh, it was a great
Christmas!
After a day of strenuous exercise on the snow-shoes the girls were in
their usual places before the log fire, watching the strange glowing
pictures in the flames. The days were so short that though it was
already dark, it was still a long way to supper, and Ruth was wondering
which of her new books she would begin with, and whether Rose would get
up and light the lamp if she asked her, when her sister remarked:
“It will be my turn to wish the next time the fairy comes, and do you
know what I’m going to ask her to do?”
“What?”
“Do you remember how Marmie has told us about her visit to Knutsford, in
England, when she was little? And that that is the real name of
Cranford. Well, don’t you think it would be dandy to go there the next
time we go through the Magic Gate?”
“Jiminy!” exclaimed Ruth, adopting one of her sister’s expressions, in
her excited approval of the idea.
“Last time, when you wished, I was so afraid you’d choose that. Rowena
was a fine wish, though. But there must be lots of nice little girls in
Cranford, and we will have such fun if the fairy takes us there—I wish
we could take our new saddles with us.”
“The little girls in Cranford haven’t any cow-ponies,” Ruth returned.
“I should say _not_.” But it wasn’t either of the girls that said that.
No, it was Honeysweet, as Rose had inwardly named their fairy, because
of that small, golden voice of hers. And now, in the joy of hearing her,
she divulged this name.
“Very pretty,” agreed the fairy. “It’s always been a favourite of mine,
too—honey, I mean.”
“Then can we call you Honeysweet after this?”
“Why not make it Honey_squeak_, since it’s my voice you’re alluding to?”
replied the fairy, laughing.
They laughed too. What a funny name, and her voice wasn’t at all a
squeak. But the name caught their fancy, all the same, and was
immediately adopted. Fairy Honeysqueak! Who ever heard anything so
absurd, and how the girls giggled. Then Rose told her wish to go to
Cranford and meet the little girls of that delightful village.
Honeysqueak thought it an excellent plan. “They are extremely good
little girls,” she said, “and I’m sure you couldn’t be in better
company. I’ll take you there for tea, which is the proper time to visit
in Cranford. Indeed, I think the good ladies have the kettle on the fire
already, expecting you. So give me your little paws, and shut your
eyes....”
They found themselves walking sedately up a paved street between high
walls, over which fell pink and yellow roses, jasmine and ivy. Evidently
there had recently been a shower, for the cobbles were shining with wet,
while here and there a puddle gleamed. But the sun was out again, and
the sky blue above them. No one was to be seen, but they seemed to know
where to go, turning to the right at a corner without the slightest
hesitation.
Nothing so demure as their two selves had ever met their eyes before.
They were dressed in the quaintest little gowns imaginable, made of
flowered muslin, with full, ruffled skirts over—yes, actually!—over
lace-trimmed pantelettes that were gathered in close to their ankles.
Low, heelless slippers with ribbons that crossed behind and tied in
front in a tiny bow, and white stockings were on their feet, and in
addition they wore odd overshoes with supports under the instep that
lifted them nearly a couple of inches above the damp pavement.
Clack-clack went these queer things with each step they took.
[Illustration:
FOR THERE WAS PETER ON THE DOCTOR’S HORSE, WITH RUTH MOUNTED BEHIND
HIM
]
Snowy white undersleeves of sheer lawn with hemstitching, and tuckers to
match completed their gowns, while on their heads were the cutest poke
bonnets, tied under the chin with a huge ribbon bow. Their hair was
arranged in quantities of curls, which filled in the bonnets all round
their cheeks most attractively. Rose’s ribbons were pink, as were the
flowers of her printed muslin, and Ruth’s blue, the babiest blue.
They smiled at each other. Each wore mits, and carried a reticule over
one arm, a neat parasol being in Rose’s possession.
As they turned a corner they met a boy in long green trousers reaching
almost to his ankles and buttoning to an absurd short-waisted coat with
a double row of brass buttons down the front and a wide turndown collar.
A low, wide-brimmed felt hat was on his head, and a mass of curls hung
from under the brim.
“Here you are,” he remarked cheerily. “Mrs. Jenkyns sent me to see if I
could find you on the way. Tea is ready, and all the young people are
gathered to meet you.”
“Are we late?” asked Ruth anxiously, pattering along faster on her
amazing footgear. She thought the things harder to manage than
snow-shoes.
“Oh, no,” answered the boy, gallantly offering an arm to each of the
girls. And so escorted, they turned in at an open gateway, proceeded up
a very neat box-bordered path, and found themselves in front of an open
doorway that led into a tiny hall. From beyond came a sound of voices.
As they paused, releasing their guide the better to settle their bonnets
before going in, a pretty maid in a very large white apron and cap to
match came tripping down the hall. Smilingly she took the parasol,
helped to untie the poke bonnets and asked them to leave their pattens
in the corner of the hall. So they slipped off the clackety things with
relief, and followed the maid toward the voices.
“I feel rather frightened,” Ruth whispered, and Rose nodded for answer.
She looked a trifle flushed and nervous. Everything was so sort of
hushed, as she confided to Ruth later.
At the door the two girls were met by a sweet-faced old lady in very
full skirts, wearing a large lacy cap trimmed with ribbons on top of her
white hair.
“I’m sure it’s most pleasant of you to come, dears,” she said. “George
told me he found you right at the corner. And now come and meet the
young people before we sit down to our tea.”
Sitting primly on the straight-backed chairs and a long settee between
two windows were some six or seven girls and three little boys. The
girls were all dressed in the same fashion as Rose and Ruth, and the
boys wore the same funny trousers and short coat that adorned George,
who was to be seen near the tea-table, holding a large flowered cosy
while the maid set down a tray. George appeared to be a very useful
little boy.
The smiling lady took Rose and Ruth round the circle, saying agreeable
things that were evidently meant to make the children feel at ease, but
did not succeed particularly well in so doing. In fact, every one seemed
tongue-tied to an alarming degree. Presently the circuit had been made,
however, each little girl dropping a curtsey, gravely returned by the
two sisters. Then the old lady released their hands.
“Now I’m sure you’ll all behave most genteelly,” she said, “and be sure
to eat a nice tea. Martha will see that everything is right. I don’t
want to restrain you in your enjoyment, and so I’ll leave you to make
friends in your own way; I know young people like to be left to
themselves.”
With that she smiled more benignly than ever, and moved off through an
archway into an adjoining room, where Ruth, who was nearest, saw that a
group of ladies were gathered about another tea-table. They all wore the
fluffiest sort of lace caps, and skirts that spread wide, with bows of
ribbon and narrow ruffles and braid trimmings. Some had fichus, some
lace tuckers, all had bunches of curls hanging over their ears. A
subdued murmur came from them.
With a concerted movement, the little party of “young people” now
advanced to the tea-table. Martha set about filling cups and handing
sandwiches and cake. With the munching every one began to unbend.
A rather tall girl with dark curls who looked even more serious than the
others seated herself beside Rose.
“I am Deborah, the Rector’s eldest daughter,” she said quietly. “Perhaps
you have never been in the house of a Rector before? It is a great pity
that my honoured father is absent or you might be permitted to go in and
curtsey to him. Peter ...” this somewhat sharply, addressing a slender
lad in a blue coat with waistcoat and trousers of nankeen, who had
pulled Ruth’s curls and was smiling mischievously as she looked from one
side to the other, trying to catch her tormentor in the act.
“Deborah,” he returned, mincingly.
“Leave off your teasing ways,” she said, shaking her head. “He is a bad,
wild boy, Ruth, if he is my own brother.”
“I don’t mind,” asserted Ruth, and she fixed a daring eye upon him.
“Come near enough and I’ll pull your curls ... since you have them!”
He laughed, and took a seat beside her. Deborah turned back to Rose, who
was looking curiously around at the circle of proper little maidens who
were eating and drinking so very, very nicely, and seeming so
exceedingly staid and grown-up.
“Don’t you ever make a noise?” she asked Deborah.
“Why should we make a noise?” Deborah’s face expressed genuine
amazement.
Rose sighed. She began to feel an irresistible impulse to leap up and
give one good yell—Red Indian yell, she muttered to herself.
A little girl with exceedingly blonde curls, pink cheeks and blue eyes,
a plump and pretty little face, whispered:
“Would you like to see the sampler I am working? It is very sweet—three
rules for a good girl, the digits, the letters, and a rose.”
“Don’t boast, Matty,” chided Deborah.
“It isn’t boasting to say what it looks like,” retorted Rose, who began
to dislike Deborah.
“Oh, but I’m sure Deborah is right,” Matty whispered again. “She is a
superior child, every one says so.”
At this moment Ruth and Peter burst out into a hearty laugh. All the
grave childish faces turned to them, and many a small hand in the act of
conveying a delicious morsel of cake to a waiting mouth, paused midway.
“And then Windy Bob gave a yell you could hear half a mile,” Ruth was
saying, “and got out his knife and started to cut the rope. But Rickety
Bob just needed that little minute to get ahead—and WIN!” She ended with
a shout.
“What is she talking about?” asked Matty, interestedly.
“I guess she’s telling about the race between Windy Bob and Rickety Bob,
the two oldest cowpunchers in Wyoming,” said Rose. “It was a corking
race, all right.”
“Listen to this,” Peter was saying. “Did you ever hear anything so
amusing! Couldn’t we all go out there some time?”
“Go where, Peter?” It was Deborah’s voice, clear and disapproving.
But the other children were all crowding round Ruth. “Tell us the story,
too, won’t you, please?” they demanded. “What is a cow-puncher, and
where do they get such funny names?”
“Oh, Lord, Rose, they don’t know what a cow-puncher is,” Ruth remarked,
looking toward her sister in astonishment.
“Tell you what,” proposed Rose, who was getting rather tired of the
solemn tea, “let’s go outdoors and find a horse and show them some
tricks. Have any of you got a pony?”
“There’s the doctor’s nag,” said Peter, eagerly. “He’s nothing very
much, but he has more life in him than a sedan chair—which is the horse
most used hereabouts.”
“Come on then,” said Rose, getting to her feet. It was easy to see that
Deborah objected. But then she was curious—and with a cautious glance
between the curtains, which had been dropped by the maid so that the
card playing ladies might not be distracted by the playfulness of the
young people, she followed the bunch of boys and girls, who were
pressing after Peter, Rose, and Ruth in no small excitement.
Peter led them up the neat and narrow street, where one or two
passers-by stared at the children in amazement. For they were chattering
at the top of their voices, and laughing in the most unrestrained manner
over the reminiscences of Ruth and Rose, who, delighted at so
appreciative an audience, raked up all the old cowboy yarns they could
recollect, and told them with fervour.
Just as Rose concluded a description of a round-up in the heyday of
range life, a description she had heard a hundred times from old Windy
Bob, who had cooked for her father’s outfit during several years, they
reached a peaceful, grassy meadow, gay with golden buttercups. In the
midst of this meadow a small horse was grazing.
“There he is,” announced Peter.
“Is there a saddle and bridle?”
To be sure there was, and Peter ran off to get both from the stable. In
the meanwhile Rose inveigled the horse toward her with a lump of sugar
brought from the tea. The saddle was unlike any she had ever seen, but
Ruth and she got it on, as well as the bridle.
Both girls could ride like the true Westerners they were, and now,
tucking their voluminous skirts neatly about them, they showed off
before that admiring herd of children in their quaint clothes, making
them appear like miniature men and women, children who had never made a
noise before in all their well-managed lives.
But they made plenty now. When Rose bent down from the saddle at full
gallop and picked up a handkerchief from the grass, their shouts of
applause rent the air. When Ruth stood up in the saddle for a few
perilous yards even Deborah gasped with wonder, and as for Peter....
Peter evidently thought Ruth the very nicest girl he had ever seen. He
was a handsome, gallant-looking lad, with dark curls that did not make
him look girlish, and a bright, fun-loving glance. He climbed into the
saddle next, and stuck there too, but when he tried to do Rose’s trick,
off he tumbled, among the yells of the other boys and to the terror of
all the little girls. He laughed, and tried again, and fell again, and
Rose went to show him how. As for the little horse, it seemed too
astonished at these extraordinary proceedings to protest by so much as a
shrug; it just did, as nearly as it knew how, what it was urged to do.
After they tired of the riding, Ruth proposed squat tag. It too was new
to the Cranford boys and girls, but they took to it rejoicingly. How
they raced, and shouted, and laughed. And what havoc the game played
with flowing skirts and white ruffles and lace tuckers, and how flushed
the young faces looked under the little poke bonnets, though many of
these were flung on the grass in the abandon of the sport.
It was a royal afternoon.
Before the hilarity had begun to die down a sedan chair born by two
respectable servants in wigs and long full-skirted coats came slowly
down the street. Behind it came two more, and after these a group of
ladies moving in the gentlest possible manner, and chattering together
over the agreeable party that had but that instant broken up.
Upon the shocked ears of this genteel group broke a wild screeching,
mixed with even wilder laughter. As they turned their heads in the
direction of the sound, they saw—well, by the expression upon their
faces as they stood rooted to the dust of the pavement, it was evident
that they couldn’t believe their own eyes.
For there was Peter on the doctor’s horse, with Ruth mounted behind him,
reining back his panting steed before a circle of hopping and yelling
children who were flourishing sticks in the most threatening manner.
Ruth was screaming wildly, and Deborah—Deborah the superior—was waving a
carving knife in Peter’s face.
“Good gracious,” stammered one of the ladies. Whereupon the sedan chairs
came to a sudden halt, three tops lifted simultaneously, and three
astounded faces appeared above them.
“Are they all mad?”
Rose suddenly caught sight of the little procession, frozen into a
horrified immobility. She saw that an explanation was necessary, and
hastily scrambled under the fence.
“We’re playing Indian,” she said. “Peter has rescued Ruth, the trapper’s
daughter, from her Indian captor, and has been intercepted by the rest
of the tribe ... it’s _very_ exciting, and he does it so splendidly.”
“Look, look at their frocks, my poor dear Arabella,” gasped one of the
heads in a sedan chair to another.
But now the rest of the children had perceived the interruption. A
sudden silence fell upon them. All but Peter. Slipping off his horse,
together with rescued Ruth, he laughed aloud.
“My, we’ll all catch it,” he said. “But it was worth it! It’s the most
wonderful day we’ve ever known. I’m glad I rescued you, Ruth.”
“I’m glad, too,” Ruth answered. “You make a splendid backwoodsman. Must
we stop?”
“I rather think so. Look at the ladies,” and he waved toward the group
in the street.
Miraculously, it seemed, mothers, aunts, and elder sisters had appeared,
and were sorting out the different boys and girls who belonged to them.
Slender hands in silk mittens were lifted in horror to the skies, as the
ruin of clothes and the dust of Indian conflict and cowboy life were
more and more revealed. There was a storm of low-voiced protest, like
the whisper of winds in a forest of firs, faces turned pale, and there
was a sniffle here and there among the reprimands.
“We were just playing,” Rose reiterated.
“Yes,” added Ruth, feeling that they two were the ones to blame. “We
wanted to show them what fun it is to be pioneers, that’s all.”
“In Cranford,” came back the stern reply, “we are ladies and gentlemen.
You have all forgotten your manners. Dear, dear, what will people say?”
And then they all drifted away, driving their captured children before
them. All but Peter. Smiling, he took a hand of each of the girls and
shook it.
“You’ve given the old ladies lots to talk about,” he said, “and that is
what they need. And now will you come home with me and....”
But Peter wavered before their eyes even as he spoke. Dizzily they
closed them. When they opened them again, they were home indeed, but it
was their own familiar ranch home, not Peter’s.
“I wish he could have come with us,” mourned Ruth. “I did love Peter,
didn’t you, Rose?”