“A poor thing, but mine own.”—SHAKESPEARE.
“Thaay stwuns, thaay stwuns, thaay stwuns, thaay stwuns.”
—T. HUGHES, _Scouring of the White Horse_.
MAGDALEN PRESCOTT stood on her own little terrace. Her house was, like
many Devonian ones, built high on the slope of a steep hill, running down
into a narrow valley, and her abode was almost at the narrowest part,
where a little lively brawling stream descended from the moor amid rocks
and brushwood. If the history of the place were told, it had been built
for a shooting box, then inherited by a lawyer who had embellished and
spent his holidays there, and afterwards, his youngest daughter, a lonely
and retiring woman, had spent her latter years there.
The house was low, stone built, and roofed with rough slate, with a
narrow verandah in front, and creepers in bud covering it. Then came a
terrace just wide enough for a carriage to drive up; and below,
flower-beds bordered with stones found what vantage ground they could
between the steep slopes of grass that led almost precipitously down to
the stream, where the ground rose equally rapidly on the other side.
Moss, ivy, rhododendrons, primroses, anemones, and the promise of ferns
were there, and the adjacent beds had their full share of hepaticas and
all the early daffodil kinds. Behind and on the southern side, lay the
kitchen garden, also a succession of steps, and beyond as the ravine
widened were small meadows, each with a big stone in the midst. The
gulley, (or goyle) narrowed as it rose, and there was a disused limestone
quarry, all wreathed over with creeping plants, a birch tree growing up
all white and silvery in the middle, and above the house and garden was
wood, not of fine trees, and interspersed with rocks, but giving shade
and shelter. The opposite side had likewise fields below, with one grey
farm house peeping in sight, and red cattle feeding in one, and above the
same rocky woodland, meeting the other at the quarry; and then after a
little cascade had tumbled down from the steeper ground, giving place to
the heathery peaty moor, which ended, more than two miles off in a torr
like a small sphinx. This could not be seen from Magdalen’s territory,
but from the highest walk in her kitchen garden, she could see the square
tower of Arnscombe, her parish church; and on a clear day, the glittering
water of Rockstone bay.
To Magdalen it was a delightful view, and delightful too had been the
arranging of her house, and preparing for her sisters. All the furniture
and contents of the abode had been left to her. It was solid and
handsome of its kind, belonging to the days of the retired Q.C., and some
of it would have been displaced for what was more fresh and tasteful if
Magdalen had not consulted economy. So she depended on basket-chairs,
screens, brackets and drapery to enliven the ancient mahagony and
rosewood, and she had accumulated a good many water colours, vases and
knick-knacks. The old grand piano was found to be past its work, so that
she went the length of purchasing a cottage one for the drawing-room, and
another for the sitting-room that was to be the girls’ own property, and
on which she expended much care and contrivance. It opened into the
drawing-room, and like it, had glass doors into the verandah, as well as
another door into the little hall. The drawing-room had a bow window
looking over the fields towards the South, and this way too looked the
dining-room, in which Magdalen bestowed whatever was least interesting,
such as the “Hume and Smollett” and “Gibbon” of her grandfather’s library
and her own school books, from which she hoped to teach Thekla.
Her upstairs arrangements had for the moment been rather disturbed by
Mrs. Best’s wishing to come with her pupils; but she decided that Agatha
should at once take possession of her own pretty room, and the two next
sisters of theirs, while she herself would sleep in the dressing room
which she destined to Thekla, giving up her own chamber to Mrs. Best for
these few days, and sending Thekla’s little bed to Agatha’s room.
And there she stood, on the little terrace, thinking how lovely the
purple light on the moor was, and how all the newcomers would enjoy such
a treat.
She had abstained from meeting them at the station, having respect to the
capacities of the horse, even upon his native hills, and she had hired a
farmer’s cart to meet them and bring their luggage. Already she had a
glimpse of the carriage, toiling up one hill, then disappearing between
the hedges, and it was long before her gate, already open, was reached,
and at her own _own_ door, she received her little sister, followed by
the others. And the first word she heard even before she had time to pay
the driver was, “My dear Magdalen, what a road!”
Poor Mrs. Best! as the payment was put into the man’s hand, Magdalen
looked round and saw she looked quite worn out.
“Yes,” said Paulina, “bumped to pieces and tired to death.”
“I was afraid they had been mending the roads,” said Magdalen.
“Mending! Strewing them with rocks, if you please,” said Agatha.
“And such a distance!” added Paulina.
“Not quite three miles,” replied Magdalen. “Here is some tea to repair
you.”
“My dear Magdalen”—in a chorus—“that really is quite impossible. It must
be five, at least.”
“Your nearest town ten miles off!” sighed Vera.
“Your nearest church,” cried Paulina.
“Up in the wilds,” said Agatha.
Magdalen felt as if these speeches were so many drops of water in her
face and that of her beautiful Goyle, but she rose in its defence.
“It actually is less than three miles,” she said. “I have walked it
several times, and the cabs only charge three.”
“That is testimony,” said Mrs. Best, smiling; “but hills, perhaps, reckon
for miles in one’s feelings!”
“Particularly before you are rested,” said Magdalen, setting her down in
a comfortable wicker chair. “You will think little of it on your own
feet, Vera, and the church is much nearer, Paulina, only on the other
side of the hill.”
“May I have a bicycle of my own?” burst in Thekla, again; while every one
began laughing, and Agatha told her that Sister would think her brains
were cycling.
“With centric and concentric scribbled o’er
Cycle and epicycle orb in orb.”
“Epicycle?” cried Vera. “I saw it advertised in the _Queen_. A splendid
one.”
“Ah! Magdalen, you will think I have not taught them their Milton,” said
Mrs. Best, as both elders burst out laughing; and Agatha said, in an
undertone, “Don’t make yourself such a goose, Vera.”
“I should think it rather rough sailing for bikes,” said Paulina.
“I should have thought so, myself,” returned Magdalen; “but the Clipstone
girls do not seem to think so. I see them sailing merrily into
Rockstone.”
“You have neighbours, then?” said Vera.
“Certainly. Rockstone supplies a good deal. Here are various cards of
people whose visits are yet to be returned. Clipstone is further off;
but the daughters will be nice friends for you. I met one of them
before, when she was staying at Lord Rotherwood’s. But I am afraid your
boxes are hardly come yet. Still, you will like to take off your things
before dinner, even if you cannot unpack.”
She led the way, and disposed of each girl in her new quarters,
explaining to Agatha that her’s and her little lodger were only
temporary; but it struck upon her rather painfully that the only word of
approbation or comfort came from Mrs. Best, and there were no notes at
all of admiration of the scenery.
“Well,” she said to herself, “much is not to be expected from people who
have been tired and shaken up in a station cab over newly-mended roads!
Were they as bad when I came? But then I could look out, and did not
hear poor Sophy’s groans all the way. I rather wish she had not come
with them, though I am glad to see her again for this last time.”
Meantime the four girls had congregated in the room appropriated to Vera
and Paulina. “Here are the necessaries of life,” said Agatha, handing
out a brush and comb. “That slow wain may roll its course in utter
darkness before it comes here.”
“To the other end of nowhere,” said Vera.
“And I am so tired,” whined Thekla. “These tight boots do hurt me so! I
want to go to bed.”
Paulina was already on her knees, removing the boots and accommodating a
pair of slippers to the little feet.
“We might as well be in a desert island,” continued Vera, “shut up from
everything with an old frump.”
“Take care,” said Agatha, in warning, signing towards Thekla.
“I am sure she looks jolly and good-natured,” said Paulina.
“But did you hear what Elsie Lee always calls her, ‘our maiden aunt’?”
All three laughed, and Vera added, “All the girls say she can’t be less
than fifty.”
“Topsy! You know she is only sixteen years older than I am.”
“Well, that’s half a hundred!”
“Sixteen and nineteen, what do they make?”
“Oh, never mind your sums. She has got the face and look of half a
hundred!”
“Now, I thought her face and her dress like a girl’s,” said Paulina.
“Yes,” said Vera, “that’s just the way with old maids. They dress
themselves up youthfully and affect girlish airs, and are all the more
horrid.”
“That’s your experience!” said Agatha. “But there’s the waggon creeping
up at a snail’s pace. Let us run down and see after our things.”