A Blackberry Foray
Having made up her mind to accept the responsibility which fate, through
the agency of the magazine editor, had thrust upon her, Ulyth,
metaphorically speaking, set her teeth, and began to take Rona seriously
in hand. Being ten months older than her protégée, in a higher form,
and, moreover, armed with full authority from Miss Bowes, she assumed
command of the bedroom, and tried to regulate the chaos that reigned on
her comrade's side of it. Rona submitted with an air of amused good
nature to have her clothes arranged in order in her drawers, her shoes
put away in the cupboard, and her toilet articles allotted places on her
washstand and dressing-table. She even consented to give some thought to
her personal appearance, and borrowed Ulyth's new manicure set.
"You're mighty particular," she objected. "What does it all matter? Miss
Bowes gave me such a talking-to, and said I'd got to do exactly what you
told me; and before I came, Dad rubbed it into me to copy you for all I
was worth, so I suppose I'll have to try. I guess you'll find it a job
to civilize me though." And her eyes twinkled.
Ulyth thought, with a mental sigh, that she probably would find it "a
job".
"No one bothered about it at home," Rona continued cheerfully. "Dad did
say sometimes I was growing up a savage, but Mrs. Barker never cared.
She let me do what I liked, so long as I didn't trouble her. She was no
lady! We couldn't get a lady to stay at our out-of-the-way block. Dad
used to be a swell in England once, but that was before I was born."
Ulyth began to understand, and her disgust changed to a profound pity. A
motherless girl who had run wild in the backwoods, her father probably
out all day, her only female guide a woman of the backwoods, whose
manners were presumably of the roughest--this had been Rona's training.
No wonder she lacked polish!
"When I compare her home with my home and my lovely mother," thought
Ulyth, "yes--there's certainly a vast amount to be passed on."
The other girls, who had never expected her to keep Rona in her bedroom,
were inclined to poke fun at the proceeding.
"Your bear cub will need training before you teach her to dance," said
Stephanie Radford tauntingly.
"She has no parlour tricks at present," sniggered Addie Knighton.
"Are you posing as Valentine and Orson?" laughed Gertie Oliver. Gertrude
had been Ulyth's room-mate last term, and felt aggrieved to be
superseded.
"I call her the cuckoo," said Mary Acton. "Do you remember the young one
we found last spring, sprawling all over the nest, and opening its huge,
gaping beak?"
In spite of her ignorance and angularities there was a certain charm
about the new-comer. When the sunburn caused by her sea-voyage had
yielded to a course of treatment, it left her with a complexion which
put even that of Stephanie Radford, the acknowledged school beauty, in
the shade. The coral tinge in Rona's cheeks was, as Doris Deane
enviously remarked, "almost too good to look natural", and her blue eyes
with the big pupils and the little dark rims round the iris shone like
twinkling stars when she laughed. That ninnying laugh, to be sure, was
still somewhat offensive, but she was trying to moderate it, and only
when she forgot did it break out to scandalize the refined atmosphere of
The Woodlands; the small white even teeth which it displayed, and two
conspicuous dimples, almost atoned for it. The brown hair was brushed
and waved and its consequent state of new glossiness was a very distinct
improvement on the former elf locks. In the sunshine it took tones of
warm burnt sienna, like the hair of the Madonna in certain of Titian's
great pictures. Lessons, alack! were uphill work. Rona was naturally
bright, but some subjects she had never touched before, and in others
she was hopelessly backward. The general feeling in the school was that
"The Cuckoo", as they nicknamed her, was an experiment, and no one could
guess exactly what she would grow into.
"She's like one of those queer beasties we dug up under the yew-tree
last autumn," suggested Merle Denham. "Those wriggling transparent
things, I mean. Don't you remember? We kept them in a box, and didn't
know whether they'd turn out moths, or butterflies, or earwigs, or
woodlice!"
"They turned into cockchafer beetles, as a matter of fact," said Ulyth
drily.
"Well, they were horrid enough in all conscience. I don't like Nature
study when it means hoarding up creepy-crawlies."
"You're not obliged to take it."
"I don't this year. I've got Harmony down on my time-table instead."
"You'll miss the rambles with Teddie."
"I don't care. I'll play basket-ball instead."
"How about the blackberry foray?"
"Oh, I'm not going to be left out of that! It's not specially Nature
study. I've put my name down with Miss Moseley's party."
The inmates of The Woodlands were fond of jam. It was supplied to them
liberally, and they consumed large quantities of it at tea-time. To help
to meet this demand, blackberrying expeditions were organized during the
last weeks of September, and the whole school turned out in relays to
pick fruit. A dozen girls and a mistress generally composed a party,
which was not confined to any particular form, but might include any
whose arrangements for practising or special lessons allowed them to go.
Dates and particulars of the various rambles planned, with the names of
the mistresses who were to be leaders, were pinned up on the
notice-board, and the girls might put their names to them as they liked,
so long as each list did not exceed twelve.
On Saturday afternoon Miss Moseley headed a foray in the direction of
Porth Powys Falls, and Merle, Ulyth, Rona, Addie, and Stephanie were
members of her flock.
"I'm glad I managed to get into this party," announced Merle, "because I
always like Porth Powys better than Pontvoelas or Aberceiriog. It's a
jollier walk, and the blackberries are bigger and better. I was the very
last on the list, so I'd luck. Alice had to go under Teddie's wing. I'd
rather have Mosie than Teddie!"
"So would I," agreed Ulyth. "I scribbled my name the very first of all.
Just got a chance to do it as I was going to my music-lesson, before
everyone else made a rush for the board. Porth Powys will be looking no
end to-day."
Swinging their baskets, the girls began to climb a narrow path which ran
alongside the stream up the glen. Some of them were tempted to linger,
and began to gather what blackberries could be found; but Miss Moseley
had different plans.
"Come along! It's ridiculous to waste our labour here," she exclaimed.
"All these bushes have been well picked over already. We'll walk
straight on till we come to the lane near the ruined cottage, then we
shall get a harvest and fill our baskets in a third of the time. Quick
march!"
There was sense in her remarks, so Merle abandoned several half-ripe
specimens for which she had been reaching and joined the file that was
winding, Indian fashion, up the path through the wood. Over a high,
ladder-like stile they climbed, then dropped down into the gorge to
where a small wooden bridge spanned the stream. They loved to stand here
looking at the brown rushing water that swirled below. The thick trees
made a green parlour, and the continual moisture had carpeted the woods
with beautiful verdant moss which grew in close sheets over the rocks.
Up again, by an even steeper and craggier track, they climbed the
farther bank of the gorge, and came out at last on to the broad
hill-side that overlooked the Craigwen Valley.
Here was scope for a leader; the track was so overgrown as to be almost
indistinguishable, and ran across boggy land, where it was only too easy
to plunge over one's boot-tops in oozy peat. Miss Moseley found the way
like a pioneer; she had often been there before and remembered just what
places were treacherous and just where it was possible to use a swinging
bough for a help. By following in her footsteps the party got safely
over without serious wettings, and sat down to take breath for a few
minutes on some smooth, glacier-ground rocks that topped the ridge they
had been scaling. They were now at some height above the valley, and the
prospect was magnificent. For at least ten miles they could trace the
windings of the river, and taller and more distant mountain peaks had
come into view.
"Some people say that Craigwen Valley's very like the Rhine,"
volunteered Ulyth. "It hasn't any castles, of course, except at
Llangarmon, but the scenery's just as lovely."
"Nice to think it's British then," rejoiced Merle. "Wales can hold its
own in the way of mountains and lakes. People have no need to go abroad
for them. What's New Zealand like, Rona?"
"We've ripping rivers there," replied the Cuckoo, "bigger than this by
lots, and with tree-ferns up in the bush. This isn't bad, though, as far
as it goes. What's that place over across on the opposite hill?"
"Where the light's shining? Oh, that's Llanfairgwyn! There's a village
and a church. We've only been once. It's rather a long way, because you
have to cross the ferry at Glanafon before you can get to the other side
of the river."
"And what's that big white house in the trees, with the flag?"
"That's Plas Cafn. It's _the_ place in the neighbourhood, you know,"
said Stephanie, fondly fingering her necklace.
"I don't know. How should I?"
"Well, you know it now, at any rate."
"Does it belong to toffs?"
"It belongs to Lord and Lady Glyncraig. They live there for part of the
year."
"Oh!" said Rona. She put her chin on her hand and surveyed the distant
mansion for several moments in silence. "I reckon they're stuck up,"
she remarked at last.
"I believe they're considered nice. I've never spoken to them," replied
Ulyth.
"I have," put in Stephanie complacently. "I went to tea once at Plas
Cafn. It was when Father was Member for Rotherford. Lord Glyncraig knew
him in Parliament, of course, and he happened to meet Father and me just
when we were walking past the gate at Plas Cafn, and asked us in to
tea."
Merle, Addie, and Ulyth smiled. This visit, paid four years ago, was the
standing triumph of Stephanie's life. She never forgot, nor allowed any
of her schoolfellows to forget, that she had been entertained by the
great people of the neighbourhood.
"He wasn't Lord Glyncraig then; he was only Sir John Mitchell, Baronet.
He's been raised to a peerage since," said Merle, willing to qualify
some of the glory of Stephanie's reminiscences.
"We don't grow peers in Waitoto, or baronets either, for the matter of
that," observed Rona. "I don't guess they're wanted out with us. We'd
have no place in the bush for a Lord Glyncraig."
"You'd better claim acquaintance with him, as your name's Mitchell too.
How proud he'd be of the honour!" teased Addie.
Coral flooded the whole of the Cuckoo's face. She had begun to
understand the difference between her rough upbringing and the refined
homes of the other girls, and she resented the sneers that were often
made at her expense.
"Our butcher at home is Joseph Mitchell," hinnied Merle.
"Mitchell's a common enough name," said Ulyth. "I know two families in
Scotland and some people at Plymouth all called Mitchell. They're none
of them related to each other, and probably not to Merle's butcher or to
Lord Glyncraig."
"Nor to me," said Rona. "I'm a democrat, and I glory in it. Stephanie's
welcome to her grand friends if she likes them."
"I do like them," sighed Stephanie plaintively. "I love aristocratic
people and nice houses and things. Why shouldn't I? You needn't grin,
Addie Knighton; you'd know them yourself if you could. When I come out
I'd like to be presented at Court, and go to a ball where the people are
all dukes and duchesses and earls and countesses. It would be worth
while dancing with a duke, especially if he wore the Order of the
Garter!"
"Until that glorious day comes you'll have to dance with poor little me
for a partner," giggled Merle.
"Aren't you all rested? We shall get no blackberries if we don't hurry
on," called Miss Moseley from the other end of the rock.
Everybody scrambled up immediately and set out again over the
bracken-covered hill-side. Another half-mile and they had reached the
bourne of their expedition. The narrow track through the gorse and fern
widened suddenly into a lane, a lane with very high, unmortared walls,
over which grew a variety of bramble with a particularly luscious
fruit. Every connoisseur of blackberries knows what a difference there
is between the little hard seedy ones that commonly flourish in the
hedges and the big juicy ones with the larger leaves. Nature had been
prodigal here, and a bounteous harvest hung within easy reach.
"They are as big as mulberries--and oh, such heaps and heaps!" exclaimed
Addie ecstatically. "No, Merle, you wretch, this is my branch! Don't
poach, you wretch! Go farther on, can't you!"
"I wish we could send the jam to the hospital when it's made," sighed
Merle.
The party spread itself out; some of the girls climbed to the top of the
wall, so that they could reach what grew on the sunnier side, and a few
skirted round over a gate into a field, where a ruined cottage was also
covered with brambles. They worked down the lane by slow degrees,
picking hard as they went. At the end a sudden rushing roar struck upon
the ear, and without even waiting for a signal from Miss Moseley the
girls with one accord hopped over a fence, and ran up a slight incline.
The voice of the waterfall was calling, and the impulse to obey was
irresistible. At the top of the slope they stopped, for they had reached
a natural platform that overlooked the gorge. The scene rivalled one of
the beauty-spots of Switzerland. The Porth Powys stream, flowing between
precipitous rocks, fell two hundred feet in a series of four splendid
cascades. The rugged crags on either side were thickly covered with a
forest of fir and larch, and here and there a taller stone-pine reared
its darker head above the silvery green. Dashing, roaring, leaping,
shouting, the water poured down in a never-ceasing volume: the white
spray rose up in clouds, wetting the girls' faces; the sound was like an
endless chorus of hallelujahs.
"Porth Powys is in fine form to-day. There must have been rain up in the
mountains last night," remarked Ulyth. "What do you think of it, Rona?"
"It's a champion! I'm going to climb down there and get at the edge."
"No, you won't!" said Miss Moseley sharply. "Nobody is to go a single
step nearer. You must all come back into the lane now, and get on with
blackberry-picking. Your baskets are only half full yet."
Very reluctantly the girls followed. The fall exercised a fascination
over them, and they could have stayed half an hour watching its white
swirl. They did not wish, however, to earn the reputation of slackers.
Two other parties had gone out blackberrying that afternoon, and there
would be keen competition as to which would bring back the most pounds.
They set to work again, therefore, with enthusiasm, counting stained
fingers and scratches as glorious wounds earned in the good cause. Rona
picked with zeal, but she had a preoccupied look on her face.
"Say, I liked that waterfall," she remarked to Ulyth. "One can't see
anything of it down in this old lane. I'm going to get a better view."
"You mustn't go off on your own," commanded Ulyth. "Miss Moseley will
report you if you do!"
"Don't excite yourself. I only said I was going to get a better view.
It's quite easy."
Rona put her basket in a safe place, and with the aid of a hazel bush
climbed to the top of the wall. Apparently the prospect did not satisfy
her.
"I'm going a stave higher still. Keep your hair on!" she shouted down to
Ulyth, and began swarming up the bole of a huge old oak-tree that
abutted on the wall. She was strong and active as a boy, and had soon
scrambled to where the branches forked. A mass of twisted ivy hung here,
and raising herself with its aid, she stood on an outstretched bough.
"It's ripping! I can see a little bit of the fall; I'll see it better if
I get over on to that other branch."
"Take care!" called Miss Moseley from below.
Rona started. She had not known the mistress was so near. The movement
upset her decidedly unstable balance; she clutched hard at the ivy, but
it gave way in her fingers; there was a sudden crash and a smothered
shriek.
White as a ghost, Miss Moseley climbed the wall, expecting to find the
prostrate form of her pupil on the other side. To her surprise she saw
nothing of the sort. Near at hand, however, came a stifled groan.
"Rona, where are you?" shrieked the distracted governess.
"Here," spluttered the voice of the Cuckoo; "inside the tree. The
beastly old thing's rotten, and I've tumbled to the very bottom of the
trunk!"
"Are you hurt?"
"No, nothing to speak of."
"Here's a pretty go!" murmured the girls, who all came running at the
sound of shouts. "How's she going to get out again?"
"Can't you climb up?" urged Miss Moseley.
"No, I can't stir an inch; I'm wedged in somehow."
What was to be done? The affair waxed serious. Miss Moseley, with a
really heroic effort, and much help from the girls, managed to scale the
tree and look down into the hollow trunk. She could just see Rona's
scared face peeping up at her many feet below.
"Can you put up your hand and let me pull you?"
"No; I tell you I'm wedged as tight as a sardine."
"We shall have to send for help then. May and Kathleen, run as quickly
as you can down the lane. There's a farm at the bottom of the hill. Tell
them what's the matter."
"I hope to goodness they'll understand English!" murmured Merle.
"Will I have to stop here always?" demanded a tragic voice within the
tree. "Shall you be able to feed me, or will I have to starve? How long
does it take to die of hunger?"
"You won't die just yet," returned Miss Moseley, laughing a little in
spite of herself. "We'll get you out in course of time."
"I guess I'd better make my will, though. Has anybody got a pencil and
paper, and will they please write it down and send it home? I want to
leave my saddle to Pamela Higson, and Jake is to have the bridle and
whip--I always liked him better than Billy, though I pretended I didn't.
Jane Peters may have my writing-desk--much she writes, though!--and
Amabel Holt my old doll. That's all I've left in New Zealand. Ulyth can
take what I've got at school--'twon't be any great shakes to her, I
expect. You didn't tell me how long it takes to die!"
"Cheer up! There's not the slightest danger," Miss Moseley continued to
assure her.
"It's all very well to say 'cheer up' when you're standing safe on the
top," said the gloomy voice of the imprisoned dryad. "It feels a
different matter when you're boxed up tight with tree all round you.
It's jolly uncomfortable. Where are the girls?"
"Here's one," replied Ulyth, climbing the tree to relieve poor Miss
Moseley, who gladly retired in her favour. "I'm going to stay and talk
to you till somebody comes to get you out. Oh, here are May and Kathleen
at last! What a fearful time they've been!"
The two messengers came panting back with many excuses for their delay.
It was a long way down the lane to the farm, and when they arrived there
they had considerable difficulty in explaining their errand. No one
could understand English except a little boy, who was only half-able to
translate their remarks into Welsh. They had at length made the farmer
realize what had happened, and he had promised to come at once. In the
course of a few minutes they were followed by David Jones and his son,
Idwal, bearing a rope, an axe, and a saw, and looking rather dismayed at
the task in store for them. It proved indeed a matter of considerable
difficulty to rescue Rona without hurting her; a portion of the
tree-trunk was obliged to be sawn away before she could obtain
sufficient room to help to free herself, and it was only after an hour's
hard work that she stood at last in safety on the ground.
"How do you feel?" asked Miss Moseley anxiously, fearing broken bones or
a sprain from the final effort of extraction.
"Well, I guess it's taken the bounce out of me. I'm as stiff as a
rheumatic cat! Oh, I'll get back to school somehow, don't alarm
yourself! I'm absolutely starving for tea. Good-bye, you wood-demon; you
nearly finished me!" and Rona shook her fist at the offending oak-tree
as a parting salute.
"She called it demon to rhyme with lemon!" gurgled Addie, almost sobbing
with mirth as she followed, holding Merle's arm. "The Cuckoo will cause
me to break a blood-vessel some day. It hurts me most dreadfully to
laugh. I've got a stitch in my side. Oh dear! I wonder whatever she'll
go and do next?"