AT THE MILL HOUSE
The Mill House at Lynn was a picturesque old dwelling, with a smooth
lawn stretching before its front windows, and a large kitchen garden
at the back, beyond which was the mill leat and the big mill wheel,
which was silent nowadays; for, like so many small grist-mills, this
one did not pay to work. No one at Lynn knew much of the present
owner of the Mill House, except that she was an elderly lady who had
purchased the house for a country residence some few years previously,
though she seldom chose to occupy it. An old man and his wife—Jabez
and Sarah Triggs—dwelt there as caretakers; and they made it known in
the village, when one day at the commencement of August strangers took
possession of the Mill House, that their mistress had lent the house to
some friends for a few weeks.
The Trents had been in residence at the Mill House for nearly a
fortnight when there arrived a letter from Cousin Becky intimating that
she hoped to join them shortly and bring Edgar with her. The news was
received with very mingled feelings by the young folks of the family.
Like their elders, they had been greatly disappointed at having had to
leave Cousin Becky at Beaworthy; but Mr. Trent had arranged the time
for his holiday, and Cousin Becky had begged them to go to Norfolk
without her, which they had accordingly done. Delighted though they
were to know that the old lady would soon be with them to share in
their enjoyments, it must be admitted that there was not a member of
the Trent family who would not have been better pleased if she had been
coming alone; and when, one morning, at the breakfast table, Mrs. Trent
put down the letter she had been reading and announced that Cousin
Becky and Edgar might be expected on the following day, Polly and Roger
exchanged quick glances and became suddenly thoughtful.
"It is good news to hear Edgar is well enough to travel," Mrs. Trent
remarked. "I am glad he is making such a quick recovery."
"So am I," rejoined Roger heartily; "but, somehow, I wish he wasn't
coming. We've had such a happy time, and he's sure to spoil everything."
"And he's been so horrid to you, Roger!" Polly exclaimed resentfully.
"Of course, I've been sorry for him since he's been ill; but think
how he's made you suffer for his fault. He didn't mind letting you be
thought a thief."
"That's what I feel I can't forgive him for," Roger said, turning
crimson with indignation at the remembrance. "When you told me all Aunt
Janie had said and I recollected how Uncle John had spoken to me, I—oh,
I can't explain what I felt! And even now, when everyone knows it was
Edgar himself who lost the Calais Noble, and Uncle John has written me
such a nice, kind letter, I can't help being furious against Edgar for
letting people think so badly of me."
"He has made all the reparation possible," Mr. Trent said gravely,
regarding his little son with a look of understanding and sympathy.
"You know, Cousin Becky wrote in her last letter that he had made a
clean breast of everything, even to his knowledge of the suspicion
his parents had entertained of you. I confess I wish Cousin Becky was
coming without him; but, as she has elected to bring him with her, we
must make the best of him. Remember, he has been ill, and it will be
far more trying for him to meet you. Roger, whom he has wronged, than
it will be for you to meet him."
Roger made no answer; but his face wore a very thoughtful expression as
he looked out of the open window, his eyes wandering over golden corn
fields, dotted with scarlet poppies waving in the pleasant breeze, to
distant sand-dunes and woods, between which and the corn fields ran a
silvery river on its course to the German Ocean. Here and there was to
be seen a windmill with extended sails; but there was no sight of any
habitation, for the village of Lynn was only to be seen from the back
windows, as it lay between the Mill House and the sea.
"What time are Cousin Becky and Edgar coming, mother?" inquired Polly
by-and-by.
"They will arrive at about six o'clock in the evening, my dear. Louisa
and I will have to be rather busy this morning, so you must go with
your father and Roger, if they will take you."
"Of course we will," Mr. Trent replied, smiling. "We have planned a
sail—that is, if the wind is suitable."
"There's Jabez in the garden, let us ask him what he thinks of the
weather before we start," said Polly as they all rose from the table.
Accordingly, whilst Mr. Trent lingered conversing with his wife, the
children repaired to the front garden to interview Jabez Triggs. He
was a tall, old man, whose duty it was to attend to the Mill House
gardens. Until the last few years he had been a fisherman, and he was
as interesting to talk to as sea-faring people usually are; he had on
several occasions greatly entertained Polly and Roger with stories of
the wonderful adventures he had experienced in his youthful days, and
had been gratified by the attention with which they had listened to
him. They thought him the nicest old man they had ever met, and Polly
consulted him every morning as to what the weather was likely to be
during the day. Sometimes he became quite confidential with her, and
once he had told her that his wife, being deaf, had the advantage of
him in many ways.
"You see, missie, a man can't argue with a woman who's as deaf as a
post," he had said aggrievedly, "and, though, maybe, it's all for
the best, it's hard on me, you'll agree. Sarah's a good wife and as
trustworthy as—but, there, we're both that, I hope, and Miss Trent
knows it, or she wouldn't have put us in charge of the Mill House."
"Did Cousin Becky—that's Miss Trent, you know—get you your situation
here?" Polly had inquired curiously.
"Why, of course, missie," the old man had replied, evidently surprised
at her question. "She heard tell of Sarah and me in the village—how we
were getting up in years and had always been respectable people, and
she offered us the post of caretakers, and here we've been for nigh
four years now. I often think what a blow it must have been to poor
Miss Trent to have lost her brother, so wrapped up in him as she was,"
the old man had concluded meditatively.
On this particular morning, Jabez Triggs, upon being consulted,
foretold a fine day, and declared the fresh wind was blowing the right
sort of breeze for a pleasant sail, with no chance of a squall. Then
Polly informed him that Miss Trent was expected on the morrow, and his
weather-beaten countenance broke into a beaming smile.
"Well, I am pleased to hear it," he said with a glad ring in his voice,
"and Sarah will be, too, I'll answer for that. I must run over the
grass with the machine this afternoon; but I don't think Miss Trent
will find the gardens have been neglected, and she was never one to
complain without cause."
The children spent a delightful morning with their father, sailing; and
when they returned at dinner-time, they were in high spirits, and their
faces, which had already become sun-burnt, glowed with excitement as
they proudly presented their mother with several fine mackerel which
they had caught by means of a hook and a line. Mrs. Trent had been
assisting Louisa to prepare the bedrooms for Cousin Becky and Edgar,
and had passed a busy morning; but she was looking very bright, and was
not feeling in the least over-tired. The complete change of air and
scene was doing her an immense deal of good, and though they had been
barely a fortnight at the Mill House, she had lost much of the languor
which had characterised her movements during the height of the summer
at Beaworthy, and it was no exertion for her to be cheerful now.
"I believe Cousin Becky will find us all looking better," Mr. Trent
said complacently. "I know I feel it myself."
And when, on the following evening, Cousin Becky arrived with her
pale-faced little companion, her very first words were to exclaim
joyfully how well and bright everyone was looking. Edgar found himself
greeted very kindly by his aunt and uncle, whilst Polly was quite
touched by his wan appearance, and regarded him commiseratingly as she
addressed him in a much friendlier tone than she had intended to adopt.
"Dear me, you do look bad," she said candidly. "I don't think I ever
saw anyone look worse. Do you feel ill now?"
"No," he answered, "not at all, thank you. I'm all right." Although
he was speaking to Polly he was looking at Roger the while. Roger had
shaken hands with him, but he had not uttered a word, nor had he met
the appealing glance of his cousin's eyes.
"You don't look all right," Polly remarked, "you've altered a great
deal. I suppose you are still rather weak, and that makes your voice
sound so quivery."
"Of course I feel not quite myself," Edgar admitted. "My head gets
dizzy and my legs shake, but I'm getting better every day."
Edgar was sent to bed early on the night of his arrival at the Mill
House, for he was naturally very tired after his journey. His aunt came
to say good-night to him the last thing before she went to her own
room, also Cousin Becky, and his uncle paused at his door to call to
him, "Goodnight, Edgar. Pleasant dreams, my boy."
An hour previously he had heard Polly and Roger whispering on the
landing; neither of them had entered his room, however, nor spoken to
him; and now, when all the household had retired for the night, he lay
awake, physically weary, but too troubled to sleep, tortured by the
haunting thought that his cousins were displeased he had come. He was
unwelcome, he was sure of that, for, though Polly had certainly spoken
to him kindly on his arrival—he was grateful to her for having done
so—neither she nor her brother had taken any further notice of him
during the rest of the evening, and Roger had not even looked at him
once.
"I suppose he hates me, and I'm sure it's no wonder," Edgar thought
miserably, bursting at last into a flood of tears.
He hid his head under the bed-clothes and tried to stifle his sobs; but
Roger, in bed in the next room, on the point of falling asleep, heard
them, and was on the alert in a moment. He had determined to keep his
cousin at a distance; but the sounds of his passionate weeping made him
feel very uneasy. What could be the meaning of Edgar's crying like that?
"I suppose he's doing it because he's been bad," he muttered. "But
what a booby he is! He'll make himself ill again if he doesn't mind. I
suppose I'd better go and find out what's wrong."
Accordingly he got up, and, stepping noiselessly so as not to disturb
the other members of the household, went to Edgar's room. It was not
quite dark, for the blinds were not drawn, and the moon was up. Edgar
was crying less noisily now; but he did not hear Roger's footsteps
approach the bed, so that he started up with a faint cry of surprise
and alarm when someone pulled the bed-clothes from off his head and
demanded to be told what all the row was about.
"Oh, Roger," he gasped. "Is it you?"
"Yes. What are you blubbering about?" Roger asked bluntly. "I can't
sleep if you go on like that—crying like a girl! Why, Polly wouldn't do
it. She'd be ashamed."
"I'm very sorry," whimpered Edgar, "but I—I can't help it."
"Are you feeling ill?" Roger questioned more gently. "If that's it, I'd
better speak to mother or Cousin Becky."
"No, no. I'm not ill; it's only that I'm so miserable because of the
way I've behaved about—about you."
"So you ought to be!"
"I know, I know! I'm very sorry, Roger, I am, indeed!"
"I should just think you are! But it's no good howling about it and
keeping me awake. Do shut up and go to sleep." Roger spoke gruffly,
but in his heart of hearts he was sorry for his cousin's distress. The
moonlight showed him such a wan, thin face, with big, hollow, blue eyes
which sought his wistfully. "I daresay you feel pretty bad in your
mind," he proceeded, "I should if I were you; but Cousin Becky wrote
that Aunt Janie and Uncle John had forgiven you everything, and—"
"Yes; but you haven't forgiven me," Edgar interrupted with a sob.
"Don't you think you ever will?"
"I—I—I have," Roger answered slowly. "I didn't think I could, but I
have. I couldn't say, 'Our Father' if I hadn't. And, look here, don't
talk any more about it—that will help me to forget."
"Oh, Roger!" There was amazement and a world of thankfulness in Edgar's
eager voice. "I've been so mean, so cowardly," he said deprecatingly,
"and you—you're such a brick!"
"Oh, shut up!" Roger responded impolitely, with a yawn. "Do lie down
and go to sleep. I'm going back to bed, I'm getting quite cold. What
are you doing?" he cried, as the other flung his arms around his
neck and, in a transport of gratitude, kissed him upon the cheek. "I
don't know what's come to you to-night," he continued when his cousin
released him and he retreated towards the door. "What do you think the
boys at school would say if they saw you do that? We're not girls. I
shan't tell Polly; but—mind you don't do it again."
"I won't," Edgar promised. "I don't know what made me then, only I felt
I must because—because you're been so awfully good to me."
Then as Roger's white-clad figure stole out of the room, and he was
alone once more, he lay himself back in bed thinking that surely this
cousin of his was the noblest, most generous boy in the world. He
had not deserved Roger's forgiveness, that he knew well; he had been
treated far, far better than he had deserved.