IN RETREAT
AWAY down in Devonshire was a little village by the sea. As yet no
motor-bus had touched it, for it could only be reached by one of the
old pack-horse lanes, and the way was steep and stony, up a precipitous
hill, and down through a narrow combe to the sea. A cluster of
fishermen's cottages, an old storm-battered grey church on the hill
above them, a couple of farmhouses, and a small granite vicarage, these
composed the village of Cudweed Cove.
A butcher came every Saturday from Drangerford, a small town eight
miles inland; he brought loaves of bread for those who did not bake
at home. A grocer and oilman arrived every Wednesday; he also brought
bread, and with these supplies the people of Cudweed were well content.
Fish was not very plentiful, but shrimps and crabs were always to be
had, and lobsters occasionally.
Into this small village, at the close of a hot afternoon in August,
arrived Orris and her little niece. They had been driven in a small
trap from Drangerford, and their destination was a little whitewashed
cottage half-way up the combe.
The cottage was owned by a Mrs. Dabbs, a widow, and she had as a young
girl lived with Orris and her father for some years. She had always
been devoted to Orris, and had often said how much she would like to
see her again. On the previous Christmas, she had come up to London
to see a married sister, and Orris had given her tea at her flat, and
promised one day that she would pay her a visit at Cudweed.
As Orris had racked her brain to think of what place she could take
refuge in, away from all friends and acquaintances, she suddenly
thought of Maria Dabbs. So she wrote to her at once, and received a
reply in two days' time, saying that she could put her large spare
bedroom and little parlour at her disposal, and would be delighted to
take her in and do for her.
Pippa was half delighted, half regretful, at this sudden move. She did
not at all like going away without wishing "Master Jock" good-bye. She
wanted her dolls' house, and she loved the farm, but, childlike, the
excitement of a journey in a train, and going to the sea kept up her
spirits.
Orris felt tired and depressed. She did not see her future. She had a
shrinking from town life again, and yet felt that to give Pippa a good
education, she must supplement her small income in some way or other.
Mrs. Calthrop had written her a brief letter, enclosing a cheque up to
the date of the fire. Jock had judged her rightly. She had no desire to
see Orris, but in her letter she wrote:
"Of course, I cannot believe in this extraordinary will that has so
suddenly been produced by Jock Muir. If he had received it when he says
he did, would he have kept it so quiet all this time? I am going to
take legal steps when I reach town."
She never mentioned the fire. The loss of the library did not trouble
her now, it was eclipsed by her intense anxiety to prove this recent
will invalid.
But nothing could put the disastrous fire out of Orris's thoughts. She
was thinking of it now as the trap creaked and rattled up and down the
stony lane, with the steep banks and high hedges on either side of it.
"Would the drive ever end?" she wondered. She marvelled at Pippa, who
was keeping up an animated conversation with the old driver. His broad
soft Devonshire tongue amused her greatly.
"Say it again," she said, with her rippling laugh. "It's something like
French, isn't it? What is 'gurt,' and 'wisht'?"
The old man shook his head.
"Aw, 'ee'll find 'en oot, I rackon, when the wind do cum auver 'ee. It
do drive doon to the zay praper strong 'twixt the girt hedges. Us be
terrible buffeted here to winter. The moor on tap on we, an the zay to
bottom, but there, a' be livin' to Drangerford now, on'y foreigners ull
niver bide in this vitty plaace."
"You mustn't depress us," said Orris, smiling, and trying to turn her
thoughts to things around her. "It isn't winter yet, but August—the
month in the year which is best for the sea."
When they at last came in sight of Cudweed, the old driver rattled down
the lane at a tremendous pace and drew up at Pansy Cottage in great
style. Mrs. Dabbs was standing at the door to welcome them, dressed in
a fresh-starched pink cotton gown.
Pippa was enchanted with the smallness and quaintness of the cottage.
The big shells and china dogs on the mantelpiece of the small
sitting-room delighted her, as did also a stuffed parrot in a case.
She wanted to go and see the sea before her supper, and scampered up
and down stairs and in and out of the rooms till Orris felt giddy. But
she was quite firm on one point, that Pippa must do no sight-seeing
that night, but have her supper and go straight to bed. And by the time
supper, consisting of hot chicken and bread sauce, and a milk pudding,
had been consumed, and her box unpacked, and everything arranged for
bedtime, Pippa was quite ready to be tucked in upon a real feather bed
and fall asleep, to be ready for the joys of to-morrow.
After she was disposed of, Orris took a turn along the beach to ease
her aching head. The tide was out, the rocks, with their slimy amber
seaweed, were touched with gold from the setting sun. It was a very
still evening; the sea lay calm and still with just a ripple at the
edge, and as Orris paced the golden sand and dreamily gazed out over
the ocean in front of her to the opalescent sky, with faint rosy clouds
on the horizon, peace stole into her heart.
"After all," she mused, "I am not a criminal. I have only been guilty
of an act of carelessness. And if he doesn't feel it as much as I do, I
ought to be thankful."
And then her thoughts dwelt on Jock. At first, she had looked upon him
as a careless, irresponsible boy. Gradually, as she came to know him
better, she found, if he had a boy's sense of humour and light-hearted
gaiety, he had a man's will and purpose in life. At the farm, the
Prestons' opinion of him impressed her.
"He's a born master of men," said the old farmer.
"He's the kindest heart and the sweetest temper in the world," said his
wife.
And Orris had proved both these statements to be true.
"I have really come away to test my own heart," she murmured to
herself; "to discover whether I could love him enough to cast in my
lot with his. I was afraid of his hurrying me into something of which
I might repent later. I believe I'm a very cold-blooded, cautious
creature. I have lived down my warm impulses. I felt too old for him a
short while back, but I don't now. I believe, if we did come together,
he would be my master, and his will bears mine down already. But I
never, never could marry him unless we were of one mind on the deepest
things in life. He knows that, I am sure, though I think he feels more
than he says. It is of no use; I cannot make up my mind yet. If I were
really in love with him, there would be no hesitation. And he is worthy
of being loved as he would himself love. I will try and not think about
him any more at present."
But in the ensuing days Orris found this very difficult, for Pippa's
talk was incessantly about "Master Jock," as she always insisted upon
calling him.
"If he was here, I b'lieve he would take me into the sea on his back!"
she sighed one day.
"If only Master Jock would walk in at the window one day and come and
help me build my sand castles, Aunt Ollie! Can't you write and ask him
to come?"
"Do you think Master Jock is settled in his house yet? We'll soon go
back, won't we? And then he'll ask us to tea, and p'raps we'll have it
in the darling little powder-room."
Orris found it quite impossible to explain the situation to Pippa, so
would generally try to turn her mind to another subject.
And one day a fair-haired boy appeared on the sands. He was the old
Vicar's grandson, who came every summer to see his grandparents. He
and Pippa were about the same age, and were soon the greatest friends.
Orris was glad and thankful to see the intimacy between them. She was
making friends with some of the fisher-folk. Occasionally she went to
tea at the Vicarage, but the old Vicar and his wife were badly off, and
plainly said they could not offer much hospitality to visitors. Orris
liked the Vicar; he was a dreamy mystic, talked over the heads of his
parishioners in his sermons, but was a good friend to them in the week,
and was never absent from any sick-bed or troubled house.
A week or two passed very quietly. Then came Orris's birthday. Pippa
had made great preparations for it. Mrs. Dabbs had been told to make a
big iced cake; Pippa herself had made some wonderful little cakes for
the occasion, Mrs. Dabbs had, of course, superintended them. They were
made of dough, and were supposed to represent mice, with currants for
their eyes and slips of candied peel for their mouths.
Pippa had been to the post office in the village, and had bought
a wonderful shell box out of her own money. She rather coveted it
herself, and spent a good deal of her time in unwrapping it and
wrapping it up again in its silver paper coverings. But of course it
was a dead secret. Then, the day before, she had been into some meadows
and collected all the wild flowers she could find, chiefly ox-eyed
daisies and wild grasses, and had made a long wreath or garland with
which to decorate her aunt. This also was hidden away, and for the
time Pippa was a most mysterious little person, stealing up and down
stairs on tiptoe, and into the kitchen to talk about the event in loud
whispers to Mrs. Dabbs.
Of course, Orris was delighted with the garland and the shell box. They
were both presented to her at half-past six in the morning by a very
wide-awake little person in her white nightie and bare feet.
"Dear Aunt Ollie, I wiss you very many happy returns of the day."
So Orris took the giver and the gifts into bed with her, and had no
more rest that morning.
But the postman arrived that day with a parcel for her. She had as yet
told no one of her address, and could not understand it. The postmark
was unfortunately erased, but the box proved to contain some most
exquisite hot-house flowers, and at the bottom, in a little separate
parcel of silver paper, were two pairs of white suede gloves. A hot
flush came into Orris's face as she recognized the writing:
"Blessing and joy be yours to-day. From one who thinks of you."
"Now how has he discovered my address?" Orris gasped in bewilderment
and dismay. She remembered how often he had said: "You'll never be able
to get away from me. I should find you in any corner of the earth you
chose to go to!" He had done it. Her secrecy was a failure. If he knew
her whereabouts, there was no reason to conceal it from anyone else.
And how had he known her birthday? She called Pippa to her.
"Pippa darling, have you ever talked about my birthday to anyone?"
"No," said Pippa promptly and cheerfully; "at least, Master Jock asked
me one day. He put it down in a book he had; and he put mine too. I
wish my birfday would be quicker about coming. It seems 'years' since
my last one. Has Master Jock sent you these pretty flowers?"
"I rather think he has."
Orris sat looking at her presents as if she were lost in a dream. How
"could" he have discovered her retreat? She had not told Dugald or any
of her friends in town. No one knew that she had left Veddon Weal. She
wondered if he would respect her wish to be left alone, or whether he
would suddenly appear in person one day. She finally decided that she
would not acknowledge his gifts. Then he would know that she wished to
be left undisturbed.
But the following week a box of chocolates arrived for Pippa. There was
no word with it, no signature, so that also was left unacknowledged.
Pippa was now quite reconciled to her new life; she played daily
with Allan Bridges, the little boy, and she was friends with all the
fishermen. Orris simply rested—or lazed, as she expressed it. She
had not had such a holiday for years, and it was doing her good. But
when September came, and the days began to shorten, and the weather
became chilly, she wondered what her next move had better be. Her
cousin Dugald implored her to come back to town. She had, after some
considerable thought, let him have her address, and then, feeling
she was rather like an ostrich hiding her head in the sand, she had
at last written to Reyne. She and Lady Violet were back in town, and
Lady Violet had been extra poorly and was going to the Riviera for the
winter.
"I am going," Reyne wrote, "with a contented heart. Miss Dashwood has
taught me such lessons from her cheerfulness with that poor sister of
hers that I am now going to put her principles into practice. I have
missed the village people so much. I learnt to know them as friends,
but Mrs. Dane writes occasionally, giving me all the village news.
I hear that Mr. Muir has not yet taken possession of his house, for
it is in the builder's hands, and he is having it renovated from top
to bottom. He is busy farming his own land. He often dines with Mr.
Dane—they seem to be great friends. I am afraid we shall not meet each
other again before I go abroad, but if you chance to come up to town,
do come and see us."
Orris shook her head.
"No," she murmured to herself, "I do not feel like town—not yet!"
It was a few days after this that she met, on the sands, a stranger.
She looked a well-bred woman, was very tall, and carried her head
proudly. She was dressed plainly in a severely-cut coat and skirt, with
a soft grey felt hat pulled over her head. She might be between fifty
and sixty, had white hair, very striking dark eyes with thick bushy
eyebrows, and her face was stern and unfriendly. Yet when she saw Pippa
dancing about on the sand, covered all over with strands of seaweed,
and calling out to her aunt that she was a mermaid just come out of the
sea, she smiled at her, and her smile was peculiarly sweet. When Orris
went in to dinner, she asked Maria Dabbs who she was.
"Oh, that's Miss Lyle," she replied promptly. "She has come down to
her house again. She really owns the village, and lives at Cudweed
Chase. 'Tis about two miles from here. She lives in London most of
the year, but comes down here for a month or two at a time, and she
arrived yesterday. She generally rides about on a big grey horse. She's
masterful, but kind; she's very good to our Vicar and his wife, and she
always takes charge of the Sunday school when she's here."
Orris felt interested in this new arrival. It was not long before Pippa
made her acquaintance.
She was playing on the beach alone one morning—for Orris had rather a
bad headache and was lying down—and Miss Lyle stopped and spoke to her.
Pippa, of course, was delighted to give her full information about
herself.
"I think I must come and see your aunt," Miss Lyle said, after she had
received a jumble of facts from the child.
"I wish you would," said Pippa. "Aunt Ollie has no books to look at
here, and no Master Jock to talk to, nor Mrs. Preston, and she doesn't
laugh so often as she used to. Can you make people laugh?"
"No, I never could," said Miss Lyle a little grimly, though her eyes
twinkled in spite of herself.
Pippa sighed.
"Master Jock always does—'always.' You simple can't help laughing,
for if you don't, he gives you a squeeze and a tickle. He says if you
laugh, you make the world go round quicker. Did you know that?"
"I expect you could teach me a lot of things," said Miss Lyle
pleasantly. And then she passed on.
Pippa told Orris, when she saw her, that the new lady was "very solemn
indeed, but just a little bit smily when you talked to her."
The very next day Miss Lyle appeared at the cottage, and in the course
of conversation Orris gleaned that she was a lonely woman and had had a
great deal of trouble in her life. She did not give Orris any details.
"I am a busy woman in town," she said. "I have found the only cure
for loneliness is work. I am secretary and treasurer to one or two
philanthropic projects, but I get away here for relaxation in the
summer and autumn. I'm fond of the fisher-folk. I suppose I must not
ask you if you are making a long stay here?"
"I don't know," said Orris; "I came here for a rest and change, but my
circumstances are rather difficult at present, and I hardly know what
my future plans are going to be."
"Will you come over to lunch with me one day next week? I won't ask the
child. I would like to have you to myself."
Orris consented. She felt strangely drawn towards this grave stately
woman.
After she had left, Maria Dabbs told Orris a little more about her. Her
father and mother had died together of virulent 'flu in London. She was
engaged to be married to the Vicar of Cudweed, evidently a charming
man, from Mrs. Dabbs's account. And then, only a twelvemonth after
her parents' death, and a week before their wedding was fixed, he was
drowned trying to rescue a fishing boat in a gale.
"And she's been all alone in the world ever since," Mrs. Dabbs said.
"She did have a brother away at sea, but he was killed in the war; it
seems that every one has been taken from her that she loves. Of course,
she's wealthy, but she lives in a most simple style, and doesn't seem
to care for the things that money could give her."
"Perhaps," said Orris gently, "she has most of her treasures away from
this world."
"Yes," assented Mrs. Dabbs, "she's very religious—I know that; for one
month, in a very stormy autumn that we had, when our Vicar was down
with pneumonia and nobody could be got to take the services, and the
church was shut, she opened the schoolroom on Sunday evening and had a
service there with us. And we had some hymns, and she got Peter Lobbs
to read the lessons, and she gave us such a sweet simple kind of talk
out of the Bible that all of us said we wished we could have her always
doing it."
Orris went to lunch at Cudweed Chase the following week. It was a
rugged grey stone house by the sea, not beautiful, but sheltered and
comfortable inside, furnished in the solid Early Victorian style. Miss
Lyle received her in a pleasant sunny morning-room overlooking the bay;
and before very long Orris found herself confiding in her a little of
her late history. Jock's name did not figure much in it, but Miss Lyle
showed such interest and sympathy, that Orris perhaps was led to be
more confidential than she would have thought it possible, with such a
comparative stranger.
When they parted, Miss Lyle said:
"You are fortunate in having such a charming little niece. If I had
any of my flesh and blood left to me, I should not feel so desolate at
times. My house, my money will come to an end when I die. I have no one
to whom I could leave my possessions. I have sometimes been tempted to
sell them. And then, again, I've felt when bring a few town friends for
rest that perhaps I can do more good with my house than would anyone
else. And my tenants look to my coming and are glad to have me here for
a bit."
As Orris walked home, she felt she had made a new friend, and she was
thankful for the fresh interest that had been put into her life.