“You may look out now for the place. Look out for our new garden. We are
just there now,” said Woodruffe to the children as the whistle sounded,
and the train was approaching the station. It had been a glorious autumn
day from the beginning; and for the last hour, while the beauty of the
light on fields and trees and water had been growing more striking, the
children, tired with the novelty of all that they had seen since
morning, had been dropping asleep. They roused up suddenly enough at the
news that they were reaching their new home; and thrust their heads to
the windows, eagerly asking on which side they were to look for their
garden. It was on the south, the left-hand side; but it might have been
anywhere, for what they could see of it. Below the embankment was
something like a sheet of grey water, spreading far away.
“It is going to be a foggy night,” observed Woodruffe. The children
looked into the air for the fog, which had always, in their experience,
arrived by that way from the sea. The sky was all a clear blue, except
where a pale green and a faint blush of pink streaked the west. A large
planet beamed clear and bright: and the air was so transparent that the
very leaves on the trees might almost be counted. Yet could nothing be
seen below for the grey mist which was rising, from moment to moment.
Fleming met them as they alighted; but he could not stay till he had
seen to the other passengers. His wife was there. She had been a merry
hearted girl; and, now, still so young, as to look as girlish as ever,
she seemed even merrier than ever. She did not look strong, but she had
hardly thrown off what she called “a little touch of the ague;” and she
declared herself perfectly well when the wind was anywhere but in the
wrong quarter. Allan wondered how the wind could go wrong. He had never
heard of such a thing before. He had known the wind too high, when it
did mischief among his father’s fruit trees; but it had never occurred
to him that it was not free to come and go whence and whither it would,
without blame or objection.
“Come—come home,” exclaimed Mrs. Fleming. “Never mind about your bags
and boxes! My husband will take care of them. Let me show you the way
home.”
She let go the hands of the young brothers, and loaded them, and then
herself, with parcels, that they might not think they were going to lose
every thing, as she said; and then tripped on before to show the way.
The way was down steps, from the highest of which two or three
chimney-tops might be seen piercing the mist which hid everything else.
Down, down, down went the party, by so many steps that little Moss began
to totter under his bundle.
“How low this place lies!” observed the mother.
“Why, yes;” replied Mrs. Fleming. “And yet I don’t know. I believe it is
rather that the railway runs high.”
“Yes, yes; that is it,” said Woodruffe. “What an embankment this is! If
this is to shelter my garden to the north—”
“Yes, yes, it is. I knew you would like it,” exclaimed Mrs. Fleming. “I
said you would be delighted. I only wish you could see your ground at
once: but it seems rather foggy, and I suppose we must wait till the
morning. Here we are at home.”
The travellers were rather surprised to see how very small a house this
“home” was. Though called a cottage, it had not the look of one. It was
of a red brick, dingy, though evidently new: and, to all appearance, it
consisted of merely a room below, and one above. On walking round it,
however, a sloping roof in two directions gave a hint of further
accommodation.
When the whole party had entered, and Mrs. Fleming had kissed them all
round, her glance at her mother asked, as plainly as any words, “Is not
this a pleasant room?”
“A pretty room, indeed, my dear,” was the mother’s reply, “and as nicely
furnished as one could wish.”
She did not say anything of the rust which her quick eye perceived on
the fire-irons and the door-key, or of the damp which stained the walls
just above the skirting-board. There was nothing amiss with the ceiling,
or the higher parts of the walls,—so it might be an accident.
“But, my dear,” asked the mother, seeing how sleepy Moss looked, “Where
are you going to put us all? If we crowd you out of all comfort, I shall
be sorry we came so soon.”
As Mrs. Fleming led the way upstairs, she reminded her family of their
agreement not to mind a little crowding for a time. If her mother
thought there was not room for all the newly-arrived in this chamber,
they could fit out a corner for Allan in the place where she and her
husband were to sleep.
“All of us in this room?” exclaimed Becky.
“Yes, Becky; why not? Here, you see, is a curtain between your bed and
the large one; and your bed is large enough to let little Moss sleep
with you. And here is a morsel of a bed for Allan in the other corner;
and I have another curtain ready to shut it in.”
“But,” said Becky, who was going on to object. Her mother stopped her by
a sign.
“Or,” continued Mrs. Fleming, “if you like to let Allan and his bed and
curtain come down to our place, you will have plenty of room here; much
more than my neighbours have, for the most part. How it will be when the
new cottages are built, I don’t know. We think them too small for new
houses; but, meantime, there are the Brookes sleeping seven in a room no
bigger than this, and the Vines six in one much smaller.”
“How do they manage, now?” asked the mother. “In case of illness, say:
and how do they wash and dress?”
“Ah! that is the worst part of it. I don’t think the boys wash
themselves—what we should call washing—for weeks together: or at least
only on Saturday nights. So they slip their clothes on in two minutes;
and then their mother and sisters can get up. But there is the pump
below for Allan, and he can wash as much as he pleases.”
It was not till the next day that Mrs Woodruffe knew—and then it was
Allan who told her—that the pump was actually in the very place where
the Flemings slept,—close by their bed. The Flemings were, in truth,
sleeping in an outhouse, where the floor was of brick, the swill-tub
stood in one corner, the coals were heaped in another, and the light
came in from a square hole high up, which had never till now been
glazed. Plenty of air rushed in under the door, and yet some more
between the tiles,—there being no plaster beneath them. As soon as Mrs.
Woodruffe had been informed of this, and had stepped in, while her
daughter’s back was turned, to make her own observations, she went out
by herself for a walk,—so long a walk, that it was several hours before
she reappeared, heated and somewhat depressed. She had roamed the
country round, in search of lodgings; and finding none,—finding no
occupier who really could possibly spare a room on any terms,—she had
returned convinced that, serious as the expense would be, she and her
family ought to settle themselves in the nearest town,—her husband going
to his business daily by the third-class train, till a dwelling could be
provided for them on the spot.
When she returned, the children were on the watch for her; and little
Moss had strong hopes that she would not know him. He had a great cap of
rushes on his head, with a heavy bulrush for a feather; he was stuck all
over with water-flags and bulrushes, and carried a long osier wand,
wherewith to flog all those who did not admire him enough in his new
style of dress. The children were clamorous for their mother to come
down, and see the nice places where they got these new playthings: and
she would have gone, but that their father came up, and decreed it
otherwise. She was heated and tired, he said; and he would not have her
go till she was easy and comfortable enough to see things in the best
light.
Her impression was that her husband was, more or less (and she did not
know why), disappointed; but he did not say so. He would not hear of
going off to the town, being sure that some place would turn up
soon,—some place where they might put their heads at night; and the
Flemings should be no losers by having their company by day. Their
boarding all together, if the sleeping could but be managed, would be a
help to the young couple,—a help which it was pleasant to him, as a
father, to be able to give them. He said nothing about the land that was
not in praise of it. Its quality was excellent; or would be when it had
good treatment. It would take some time and trouble to get it into
order,—so much that it would never do to live at a distance from it.
Besides, no trains that would suit him ran at the proper hours; so there
was an end of it. They must all rough it a little for a time, and expect
their reward afterwards.
There was nothing that Woodruffe was so hard to please in as the time
when he should take his wife to see the ground. It was close at hand;
yet he hindered her going in the morning, and again after their early
dinner. He was anxious that she should not be prejudiced, or take a
dislike at first; and in the morning, the fog was so thick that
everything looked dank and dreary; and in the middle of the day, when a
warm autumn sun had dissolved the mists, there certainly was a most
disagreeable smell hanging about. It was not gone at sunset; but by that
time Mrs. Woodruffe was impatient, and she appeared—Allan showing her
the way—just when her husband was scraping his feet upon his spade,
after a hard day of digging.
“There, now!” said he, good-humouredly, striking his spade into the
ground, “Fleming said you would be down before we were ready for you:
and here you are!—Yes, ready for you. There are some planks coming, to
keep your feet out of the wet among all this clay.”
“And yours too, I hope,” said the wife. “I don’t mind such wet, after
rain, as you have been accustomed to; but to stand in a puddle like this
is a very different thing.”
“Yes—so ’tis. But we’ll have the planks; and they will serve for running
the wheelbarrow too. It is too much for Allan, or any boy, to run the
barrow in such a soil as this. We’ll have the planks first; and then
we’ll drain, and drain, and get rare spring crops.”
“What have they given you this artificial pond for,” asked the wife, “if
you must drain so much?”
“That is no pond. All the way along here, on both sides the railway,
there is the mischief of these pits. They dig out the clay for bricks,
and then leave the places—pits like this, some of them six feet deep.
The railways have done a deal of good for the poor man, and will do a
great deal more yet; but, at present this one has left those pits.”
“I hope Moss will not fall into one. They are very dangerous,” declared
the mother, looking about for the child.
“He is safe enough there, among the osiers,” said the father. “He has
lost his heart outright to the osiers. However, I mean to drain and fill
up this pit, when I find a good outfall: and then we will have all high
and dry, and safe for the children. I don’t care so much for the pit as
for the ditches there. Don’t you notice the bad smell?”
“Yes, indeed, that struck me the first night.”
“I have been inquiring to-day, and I find there is one acre in twenty
hereabouts occupied with foul ditches like that. And then the overflow
from them and the pits, spoils many an acre more. There is a stretch of
water-flags and bulrushes, and nasty coarse grass and rushes, nothing
but a swamp, where the ground is naturally as good as this; and, look
here! Fleming was rather out, I tell him, when he wrote that I might
graze a pony on the pasture below, whenever I have a market-cart. I ask
him if he expects me to water it here.”
So saying, Woodruffe led the way to one of the ditches which, instead of
fences, bounded his land; and, moving the mass of weeds with a stick,
showed the water beneath, covered with a whitish bubbling scum, the
smell of which was insufferable.
“There is plenty of manure there,” said Woodruffe: “that is the only
thing that can be said for it. We’ll make manure of it, and sweep out
the ditch, and deepen it, and narrow it, and not use up so many feet of
good ground for a ditch that does nothing but poison us. A fence is
better than a ditch any day. I’ll have a fence, and still save ten feet
of ground, the whole way down.”
“There is a great deal to do here,” observed the wife.
“And good reward when it is done,” Woodruffe replied. “If I can fall in
with a stout labourer, he and Allan and I can get our spring crops
prepared for; and I expect they will prove the goodness of the soil.
There is Fleming. Supper is ready, I suppose.”
The children were called, but both were so wet and dirty that it took
twice as long as usual to make them fit to sit at table: and apologies
were made for keeping supper waiting. The grave half-hour before Moss’s
bedtime was occupied with the most solemn piece of instruction he had
ever had in his life. His father carried him up to the railway, and made
him understand the danger of playing there. He was never to play there.
His father would go up with him once a day, and let him see a train
pass: and this was the only time he was ever to mount the steps, except
by express leave. Moss was put to bed in silence, with his father’s
deep, grave voice sounding in his ears.
“He will not forget it,” declared his father. “He will give us no
trouble about the railway. The next thing is the pit. Allan, I expect
you to see that he does not fall into the pit. In time, we shall teach
him to take care of himself; but you must remember, meanwhile, that the
pit is six feet deep—deeper than I am high: and that the edge is the
same clay that you slipped on so often this morning.”
“Yes, father,” said Allan, looking as grave as if power of life and
death were in his hands.