THE DINGLE.
IT was a sweet wild place, this Dingle, coming after a long reach of
flat and lonely moor. There was a deep dip, and a grassy space below,
with one tiny cottage built beside a running stream, while all around
the rocky sides rose steeply, clothed with brushwood and small trees,
amongst which the brilliant spring green of the larches was the most
conspicuous. And from this little hollow or basin, the pathway—about
as wide and rough as a mountain sleigh-path, and much overgrown with
grass—leading up alongside of the sparkling stream, rose winding in a
narrow gorge, with rocks and trees still closing in on either side.
Several threatened endings proved only to be fresh turnings of the
path, until at length the summit was attained of a certain round green
hill, with a good view of the surrounding country, and a number of
larches and silver beeches growing down its sides.
A month or two later, the pretty spot would be almost overrun
by excursionists, but it was quiet now, with the exception of
Madge Hardwicke's party, who made noise enough for fifty ordinary
pleasure-seekers. Madge loved nothing better than to see "her
children," as she called them, enjoying themselves. They had all
arrived at the Dingle by three o'clock, and many games in the "green
basin" followed.
Mrs. Blayney and her son, and Nat Tyrrell and his wife, were by no
means useless additions to the party. Madge alone would have been
hardly equal to the task of keeping all those busy little feet out of
perilous spots, but for their aid. As it was, they had enough to do,
all five of them, during the first hour and a half. It was somewhere
about the close of that time that a little basket-carriage was seen
approaching, drawn by a pretty grey pony, and a shout was immediately
raised:—
"I say,—if it ain't the Parson a-driving up here!"
No unwelcome arrival was that little chaise, though nobody yet knew
what lay hidden under the seats. The children came crowding around, to
receive kind words and smiles, alike from Mr. Prior, and from the pale
lady beside him, who never left her Rectory home save in a carriage,
but was no stranger to them all nevertheless. As for the small boy,
Georgie, with his knickerbockers, and straw hat, and floating blue
ribbons, he was out on the ground in a moment, at the imminent risk of
his legs, ready for any amount of play.
"So you are all enjoying yourselves here, Madge," said Mr. Prior, as
she stood, smiling, near at hand.
"Well, sir, the children seem to find a deal of pleasure in it," said
Madge.
"Don't think we are going to intrude, Madge," said Miss Prior, the
clergyman's sister. "We can drive up the Dingle, and leave you all to
play, you know. Only we wanted to bring just a little contribution to
your feast, as you—naughty woman that you are—didn't take the trouble
to invite us."
"You're welcome enough, ma'am, if I'd thought you cared to come," said
Madge placidly. "Miss Mona has nigh as much to do with the matter as I."
But her face lighted up a good deal at the sight of the hamper, and the
children's consequent delight. And when it was opened, and the contents
began to appear, the little ones did not seem to know how to smile
broadly enough for such a grand occasion. Miss Prior was satisfied
so far, and began now to talk of driving on, but Madge interposed.
Wouldn't they stay, and help to eat up the feast?
"Spoil the fun?"
Madge laughed her low quiet laugh at the idea. And Nannie, creeping up,
looked with a pair of pleading eyes, which added weight to the words of
Madge.
"You two together are irresistible," Miss Prior said. "I am vanquished
at all events. What will the rest of you do?"
"I never intended to do anything but stay, all along," said Mr. Prior
composedly, and Madge's gray eyes flashed a look of merry appreciation.
No arm-chair being at hand, Mrs. Prior had to keep her seat in the low
basket-chaise, but the pony was taken out and tied to a tree, and half
the children gathered round to feed him with handfuls of grass, while
the other half watched the unlading of the hamper with eager eyes.
It was no meagre fare that Mr. and Miss Prior had brought for the
occasion. Madge's buns found themselves in a very small minority,
compared with the varieties of provisions now produced. A white
cloth had not been forgotten, and amid much fun and laughter, the
table—otherwise the ground—was laid; hot water was procured from the
cottage; and tea was at length ready.
Then they all sat round in a circle,—Mr. Prior being honoured with a
seat upon a stump, and having a bodyguard of small children at his end
of the cloth. Nannie crept to his side, and sat there, almost too happy
to eat. Poor little child! This day was one of radiant experience in
her cloudy life. She had not known many such.
It was a mixed sort of company gathered there to dinner, or tea, or
whatever they chose to term that five o'clock out-of-door feast on the
grass. The hamper-full would almost have served to supply a meal of
either description. Mixed as the company might be, however—including
the Priors and Mona, the children and Madge, a sailor and his mother, a
carpenter and his wife,—it was a very merry and a very happy party. Had
Mr. Chetwynd been one of the number, he would probably have felt a good
deal out of his element, from the fact that he would have been troubled
with a certain amount of anxiety as to his own dignity.
Mr. Prior, whose pleasant ease of manner, and entire
self-forgetfulness, were equally to be seen on all occasions, whether
his companions might chance to be earls and baronets, or masons and
plumbers, suffered from no such uneasiness. He kept up a cheery flow
of conversation, just suited to those present—bright, cheerful,
kindly, with many an illustration for the men, and many a story for
the little ones, not lacking a vein of quaint humour, and yet having
an under-current of serious purpose, which now and then rose to the
surface, like a golden thread in a many-coloured pattern.
The feast over—and very thoroughly it was over, little but crumbs
remaining—there was some talk of the chaise and its inmates driving
on. Miss Prior protested. She at least must have one game with the
children first. Wouldn't Mona join? Mona did not object, but for all
Miss Prior's twenty years' seniority, Mona seemed of the two to have
the less appreciation of the fun. She very soon found her help was not
really needed, and slipped away.
"Mona, you are not well to-day," said Mrs. Prior, as she came up.
Mona flushed suddenly. "I have rather a headache, Mrs. Prior; I dare
say it will go off soon."
"Don't tire yourself, dear. My sister likes nothing better than a game
with the little ones. Would you not rather go home at once?"
"O no, thank you! We are to walk up the Dingle," said Mona, unwilling
to check the general enjoyment, though she really did feel far from
well. "They say the view from the top is lovely."
"Yes; and I am told that the path is quite fit for our little chaise,
so we will all go up together," said Mr. Prior, making his appearance
at this juncture. "Here come Tyrrell and Blayney to harness in the
pony."
"I am glad Mrs. Prior will be able to come too," Mona remarked.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]