AT TY-GWYN.
[Illustration: Decorative H]
is aunt's letter, though so kind, had caused Neville some
disappointment. It was evident to him that there was no hope of her
being able to have Kathleen to live with her. And indeed, these coming
holidays were probably the only ones they could ever hope to spend with
her.
'Poor Aunt Clotilda!' thought the boy. 'It is really very sad for her.
Papa has always told us what a good sister she was to him, and of course
if they had come home and gone to live there she would always have
stayed with us. I wonder what she will do? I wish I were old enough to
earn money, somehow, so that we three, aunt and Kathie and I, could live
together till papa and mamma come home. It seems a shame for her to have
to work, and yet I suppose she'll have to do something like being a
governess or a companion; perhaps she's too old to be a governess. She's
much older than papa.'
The thought of his aunt seemed to bring out all the chivalry in his
nature.
'When I'm a man,' he went on thinking to himself, 'if Kathleen and
little Vida are not married, and poor, I won't marry till I've got
enough for them to be comfortable. Of course it was different for papa,
for he was so sure of Mrs. Wynne's money. It's very kind of Aunt
Clotilda to want me too to go. I should like to see the place, though it
will be rather horrid too to know it should have been ours. I do hope
Kathie will like the idea of going.'
All fears on this score were soon put an end to. The very next morning
brought him back his aunt's long letter enclosed in a rather scrawly
note from Kathleen, condescendingly expressing her approval of the
scheme, the reason of which was, to tell the truth, principally
contained in the postscript.
'We'll have a good hunt for the will ourselves. I'm sure Aunt Clotilda
is rather a goose. I don't believe she's half hunted for it. Just think,
Neville, _if_ we found it!'
And Neville's face flushed with a momentary enthusiasm as he pictured to
himself the delight of such a possibility. But the glow quickly faded
again.
'No, there's no use thinking of it,' he said to himself; 'better not.
Kathie mustn't get it into her head, though I'm glad in one way to see
that she has thought about it seriously. But I'm quite sure Aunt
Clotilda has done everything that could be done. Kathie has no business
to say she's a goose. Now I can write to her and say we should like very
much to go to her. I hope it won't bother her much.'
[Illustration]
His letter was sent that very afternoon. But it was not till nearly noon
on the following day that it reached its destination. In what Miss
Clotilda Powys herself and many of her neighbours, not to speak of old
Martha, were already beginning to call 'the old days,' a groom used
regularly to be sent from Mrs. Wynne's to the two miles distant
post-office, where the letters arrived by mail-cart early in the
morning. Now-a-days the White House had to take its turn with the rest
of the world in the out-of-the way village, and to wait the good
pleasure of old John Parry, who stumped along at his own sweet will, the
canvas bag slung across his shoulders, seeing no reason why he should
hurry. Nay, more, if there happened to be any piece of work at his own
cottage that he was anxious to get finished betimes, the letters might
wait--half an hour or so couldn't make such a mighty difference, and he
was quite secure that no one in the village would ever notice it or
complain if they did. Miss Clotilda Powys was perhaps the only person
the least likely to mind whether her share of the post-bag's contents
reached her at ten o'clock or twelve. And lately, since the excitement
that immediately followed Mrs. Wynne's death had subsided, since there
were no more lawyer's letters of advice or inquiry to look for--for
everybody by this time had come to believe that either the will would
never be found or did not exist--Miss Clotilda cared little more about
post-time than anybody else. She had no heart left to feel interest in
the outside world, and she was a woman whose chief interests would
always be those of her own belongings. For she had lived in a small
sphere all her life--her one great affection had been for her younger
brother, David Powys, the father of Neville and Kathleen; like a stream,
dammed on all sides but one, this affection had deepened and
strengthened till it had become the one idea of her life. It is easy,
therefore, to understand that Captain Powys was right when he said that
his sister was perhaps the most to be pitied of all concerned.
Old Martha had been many years in Mrs. Wynne's household. She knew Miss
Clotilda well--better, probably, than did any one else. She had admired
her patience with the old lady, her self-denial and gentleness, and she
sympathised almost more than any one in the terrible disappointment. And
lately she had begun to feel very unhappy about Miss Clotilda. Since she
had come to lose hope, the poor lady had grown listless and
low-spirited, so that Martha sometimes almost feared she would fall ill,
and not care to get well again.
'I must have deserved it,' she would say sometimes to the old servant.
'I fear I have been selfish--caring too much for my own dear brother,
and thinking of nothing else.'
'Oh, miss,' Martha would remonstrate, 'how could you ever think so? I'm
sure no lady could have been kinder than yourself to all the poor folk
about. You've never been one to turn a deaf ear to anybody's troubles.'
'But in my heart,' said her mistress, 'in my heart my one thought has
been David, and that cannot be right, for now it seems as if there was
nothing left, now that I can no longer plan for his happiness. I don't
know what to do with myself, Martha. I'm getting old, and I am useless;
at least, I feel that I shall be useless away from here. I should like
to become a sister, and work among the poor, but I am afraid I should
not understand it, away from here.'
'Never fear, miss,' Martha would say consolingly. 'A way will show for
those as really wishes to do right. You've done what was your duty well
till now. I'm sure no lady knows better how to see to a garden or a
dairy; and for poultry, miss, you've quite a special calling. Don't you
worry, miss.'
And this she would say, though her own heart was sad. She feared she
would have to leave Miss Clotilda, and it was hard to think of going to
work among strangers at her age. But she was a truly good and
faithful-hearted old woman. She believed that, as she said, no one
really anxious to do right will ever be left for long at a loss.
Many a night had Martha lain awake, thinking about the lost will. She
turned over in her head every possible, or impossible, place in which
Mrs. Wynne could have hidden it. More than once, indeed, she had got up
in the dark, and lighted a candle to go peeping into some cupboard or
drawer which it had struck her had not been thoroughly turned out. But
all in vain. And now she, too, like Miss Clotilda herself and the rest
of the world, had begun to think all hope was over.
She was very delighted when the boy Neville's first letter came, for of
course she was at once told of its contents. And she saw that it brought
a light to Miss Clotilda's eyes, and a colour to her cheeks, that had
not been there since Mrs. Wynne's death.
[Illustration: 'THERE'S YOUR WORK FOR YOU, SO TO SPEAK, MISS.']
'There now, missy dear,' said the old servant, for Clotilda, whom she
had known for more than thirty years, still seemed a child to her
sometimes, 'didn't I tell you it would be shown you what to do? There's
that dear little girl, by her brother's account--and an uncommon
well-thinking young gentleman he must be--sorely in need of a mother's
care; and who could do so well instead of a mother as her own aunt, I'd
like to know? There's your work for you, so to speak, miss.'
'But, Martha,' said Miss Clotilda, 'I can't have her to live with me, as
Neville hints. Even if David were to give me what he pays for her
now--and it would go hard with me to take it--I have no house. And I am
not clever enough to teach her;' and again Miss Clotilda's face fell.
'Wait a bit, miss,' said Martha again; 'there's no telling how things
may turn out yet. The first thing to do is to have the young lady and
her brother for the holidays, so you'll get to know them, and they you.
And maybe a way will be shown for you to have them more with you after
that.'
'But, Martha,' said Clotilda again, '_can_ I have them with me even for
the holidays? I've so very little money left. And children have good
appetites, and it would be dreadful not to give them nice things and
plenty.'
'We'll manage it,' said Martha. 'We've still the use of the garden, and
some of the poultry's your very own, miss. And the cow is still
giving milk. Mr. Wynne-Carr said nothing about that.'
'No. I think if I wrote to him about the children he would tell me I
might use all there is in the place. And we don't need much, you and I,
Martha--we need hardly anything that has to be bought, and I can be even
more careful till my half-year's money comes,' for she had fifty pounds
a year of her own, but that was all. 'If I can make the children happy
these holidays, I don't care what happens afterwards,' she added
brightly. 'I can always go to one or other of my old friends for a few
weeks till I find some kind of situation.'
'To be sure,' Martha agreed.
So the letter was sent which we have read. And then Miss Clotilda and
the old servant went into all sorts of discussions as to ways and means.
Mr. Wynne-Carr was written to, and in reply he, as Martha expressed it,
'made Miss Clotilda free of the cow and the garden,' and told her to
consider _all_ the poultry as hers, to eat or sell, as she preferred.
That was grand. Martha disposed of several couple almost at once, and
proceeded to fatten up others. And when the news of the 'Captain's
children' coming to visit their aunt was told to some of the neighbours,
several substantial proofs of goodwill were forthcoming. Old Thomas
Evans, the principal tenant, begged Miss Clotilda to allow him to send
her a forequarter of mutton every time he killed a sheep, while the
young people should be with her; and Mary Jones, the village
schoolmistress, humbly presented a beautiful dish of honeycomb. Old
Martha was triumphant, and maintained that troubles are often blessings
in disguise, as they show us good points in our neighbours which
otherwise might never be suspected.
And the next day or two were much more busy and cheerful than their
predecessors, though Miss Clotilda felt anxious to hear again from
Neville, and in the day or two which had to pass before the boy's reply
could possibly come she had time enough to worry herself with all sorts
of fears and misgivings.
'It would be too disappointing if they decided they did not care to come
now that we have settled all so nicely, would it not, Martha?' she kept
repeating. 'I hope my letter was not too discouraging, so to say. What I
said about being so poor now. I trust that will not make them afraid of
coming.'
'What you said, miss, was just the plain truth--that you'd do your best
for them, and give them a hearty welcome. You couldn't pretend things
would be as in the old days, or as they _should_ be if the Captain had
his rights. But don't worry, miss; Master Neville's a sensible young
gentleman and his father's own son, or I'm much mistaken, and the little
girl is just a child. It'll be all right, you'll see.'
It was, however, very provoking, that the morning Neville's letter was
on its way, the very first day that there could possibly have been an
answer from him, old John should have been particularly late. Twenty
times that morning did Miss Clotilda open the front door, and stand
gazing along the drive in hopes of perceiving the familiar figure of the
old letter-carrier, and at least half as many times was Martha
despatched to the cottage at the corner of the road which he _must_
pass, to make sure that he had not already done so. To tell the truth,
Martha only went once, and there would have been no use in her going
oftener, for she explained the matter to her namesake, Martha Price, the
owner of the said cottage, and made her promise to send the old man,
'anyways,' to say so, even if there were not a letter.
But nevertheless, every time Miss Clotilda's voice was heard calling
'Martha, you might just run to the cottage,' the cunning old body called
out, 'To be sure, miss, to be sure.' And when the inquiry came down the
kitchen passage--'Well, Martha?'--'Not yet awhile, miss. Old John's not
in sight just yet,' she would reply.
The longest lane has its turning, however, and the longest waiting comes
to an end.
It was nearly one o'clock when Parry at last appeared, smiling and
complacent, so that Miss Clotilda found it impossible to meet him with
the scolding she felt sure he deserved. He'd have been sharper, to be
sure, if he'd known the lady was in a hurry for her letter--there was
but the one for the White House--another time if she'd give him a hint
a day or two before, he'd see to it she wasn't kept waiting. But she had
no patience to listen to his polite speeches, she seized the letter and
hurried off with it to her own room to read it in private. Poor
loving-hearted Miss Clotilda! Her nerves had been sadly tried of late.
She really felt that if the letter were to say they were not coming
after all, she might be guilty of bursting into tears, and that it would
not do even for Martha to see!
It was all right, however. The first word or two reassured her.
'MY DEAR AUNT,' wrote Neville, 'Kathie and I thank you very much
for your kind letter. I have not seen Kathie, but I wrote to her,
and we are both sure we should like very much to come. I am very
sorry about all the trouble. I am so sorry it should make you
poorer too. I should like to be grown-up, and to work hard to help
papa and mamma and my sisters and you. It will not make us unhappy
to see the place. We shall like to see it. Please write to Mr.
Fanshaw and Miss Eccles. Kathie's holidays begin in three weeks,
and I could come then too. I am sure we should be all right to
come third-class. A boy here, whose people are very rich, goes
third with his sister, because his father says it's better than
second. Mr. Fanshaw can find the trains if you'll fix the
day.--Your affectionate nephew,
'NEVILLE W. POWYS.'
Again Miss Clotilda's voice sounded along the kitchen passage.
'It's all right, Martha,' it said joyfully. 'The dear children are
coming. I think I'll just slip on my bonnet and run up to Mr. Parry's'
(_this_ Mr. Parry was the vicar), 'and see if he's got a--a clergy
list--oh, dear me! what am I saying? I mean a railway-guide, and then if
I mark down the best train I can write at once to Miss Eccles and to Mr.
Fanshaw. It will save them all trouble, and of course I must choose a
train which will arrive in good time at Frewern Bay, on account of the
long drive, you see, Martha.'
'To be sure, miss, to be sure,' Martha agreed. 'But you'll have some
luncheon first, miss. They'll be at theirs at the vicarage.'
'Very well, Martha,' said Miss Clotilda submissively. She felt far too
excited to eat, but still she did not want to delay Martha's own dinner.
The calling this mid-day repast 'luncheon' was a pious fiction, for, for
many years past, even in the so-called 'old days,' it had been the real
dinner. Mrs. Wynne had been too delicate to take a substantial meal late
in the day, and now, alas! there were serious reasons why Miss Clotilda
should be content with but one such. And with her present economical
intention, I am afraid even her luncheon was not a luxurious meal. But
the thought of the little visitors for whom they were made sweetened and
cheered her self-sacrifices.
'I've been thinking, miss,' said Martha, as she waited upon her
mistress, 'that if I was a little saving with the milk this week or two,
we might get a pound or so of butter to sell at the market with the
chickens next week. I've spoke to widow Jones about it, and she'll be
pleased to sell whatever we like with hers.'
'A very good idea,' said Miss Clotilda approvingly. 'Of course, it's
nonsense for me and you to use all the milk. For my part, I don't care
about cream in my tea at all. I meant to have told you so. Nor do I care
about butter--just now, in the hot weather too. You may save all the
milk you can for churning, as far as I'm concerned, only don't stint
yourself, Martha, mind.'
Martha murmured something like 'No fear of that.'
But all the same it was scanty milk and no butter that fell to the share
of the old servant's tea. Miss Clotilda, too, was satisfied that she
herself was practising the utmost economy, though more than once she
remarked to Martha that the red cow's milk seemed nicer than ever. 'In
my tea I should really not tell it from cream.'
And silly little Kathie all this time never thought and seldom spoke of
her aunt except as 'that stupid old maid,' and thought herself, I rather
suspect, very condescending for having made up her mind to spend the
holidays at the White House.