WESTWARD HO!
IT is a far cry from Dinard to the west of Cornwall; and by the time
they were nearing their destination on the second day of their journey
both boys were feeling rather tired. But they brightened up when at
last they left the train, and took their places in the coach which was
to carry them over the twenty miles which lay between the last station
to which the railway ran and the little fishing-village of Polwherne.
It was a lovely drive up and down steep country roads and over wide
stretches of moorland, where the heather grew like a purple pall, and
the wild moorfowl circled over their heads uttering shrill cries as
they passed. All at once, just as the sun was setting, they seemed to
come to the end of the land, for without any warning, at the top of a
steep ascent, the moorland suddenly stopped, and they found themselves
looking down on a wide expanse of dark-blue sea, over which the last
rays of the sun shone like burnished gold.
Down below them, to the right, the cliffs fell back a little, forming
a tiny bay, and here, nestling to the sides of the rocks, lay a tiny,
red-roofed village, which was reached by a steep, straggling road.
It was evidently a fishing-village, for the main street ran down to a
miniature harbour, which was full of boats. Farther on, running along
the foot of the cliffs, was a long stretch of yellow sand, which,
however, showed signs of being covered by the sea at high-tide.
‘So this is Polwherne, boys,’ said Mr Maxwell, as the driver drew
up his horses for a moment’s breathing-space before they began the
descent. ‘I hope you will not find it too dull. There will be lots of
boating to be had, and long tramps on the moors, and in winter we must
keep ourselves busy with work and books.’
‘Oh no, we sha’n’t be dull; it looks a jolly place,’ cried both the
boys at once, for they were passionately fond of the sea, and were
never at a loss to find occupation when they were within reach of it.
‘Why, we will soon learn to know all about a boat, and we can make a
model of one in the winter. We tried to make one once at home, but we
had nothing to copy from. But what a road for a carriage! Do you think
the man will ever manage to get down with all those boxes?’
‘He is accustomed to it, I expect,’ said Mr Maxwell. See, he has long
skids to put on the wheels to keep the coach back. He comes over here
three days a week, so he knows the road well. Besides, the Rectory is
not very far down; that is it, that big red house among the trees at
the top of the main street. Well, I hope that the lady I spoke of has a
good tea waiting for us.’
The driver had arranged his skids and climbed up to his seat once more;
glancing over his shoulder with a cheery ‘To the Rectory, sir?’ he
cracked his whip, and the coach began its lumbering descent. It needed
skilful driving; but the man knew what he was about, and in less than
five minutes he had turned his horses in at the low wooden gate which
led to the Rectory grounds.
‘Hallo! there are quite a lot of people at the door,’ said Ronald in a
bewildered voice, and then he gave a shout of glad surprise. ‘Look,
Vivi, look!’ he cried. ‘There is father and mother, and Uncle Walter
and Aunt Dora, and all the others. Even Isobel, not on a chair at all,
but walking about like the rest.’
And there, indeed, they all were, crowding round the coach, with eager
greetings helping the boys to jump down, and lifting out their numerous
packages.
‘Vivi has comed back to me, mine own Vivi!’ cried little Dorothy,
forsaking for once her elder brother in her joy at finding her
younger one; while Isobel, taller and thinner than she had been at
Christmas-time, and with closely cropped hair, linked her arm in
Vivian’s, whispering in delight, ‘Isn’t this jolly? And aren’t you
astonished to see us all here? We came to give you a surprise, and we
are to stay a whole month. Uncle Jack only arrived this afternoon; but
auntie and Dorothy came two days ago, and we came last night. We are
living in that white house down there; you can see the chimneys just
over the garden wall, and I have left my stupid old chair behind me.
The doctor says I do not need it any more.’
Then they all went in to tea, in the low, old-fashioned dining-room,
with its mullioned windows which looked out over the sea.
And such a tea it was, to be sure! There was newly baked bread, and
fresh boiled eggs, and a great dish of shrimps which the children had
caught in the pools that morning; and delicious butter and honey, and a
pile of hot girdle cakes, and a round orange-cake, Vivian’s favourite,
which Aunt Dora had brought all the way from London with her.
Mrs Armitage sat at the head of the table, and Mr Maxwell at the foot,
and it seemed as if every one laughed and talked and ate as they had
never laughed and talked and eaten in their lives before.
‘I think I have never been at such a jolly tea-party,’ said Ronald,
when at last he had to own that he was satisfied, and could not tackle
even a tiny piece more of Aunt Dora’s orange-cake.
‘Nor I!’ ‘Nor I!’ ‘Nor I!’ echoed Isobel and Vivian and Claude.
‘It reminds me of the tea-party we had the night you came to us at
Christmas, Ronald,’ said Ralph, ‘before all the fuss began. We had
orange-cake that night, and I don’t believe I have tasted it since. Do
you remember, we had the silver cake-knife upstairs to cut the icing
and to make the table look nice—mother’s best silver cake-knife, which
the thieves took, and which she has never got back?’
It was an unfortunate remark, for it brought back much that every one
was trying to forget. Somehow, Ralph had a habit of making such remarks.
There was a moment’s pause, and then all the elders began to talk at
once, hoping that Vivian had not heard Ralph’s words, for they had
determined that no shadow of reproach should mar his home-coming.
But he had heard it, and his face turned crimson. ‘I thought all the
silver had been found, Aunt Dora,’ he began timidly, looking across the
table to where his aunt was seated.
‘So it has, dearie,’ she answered brightly, ‘all but one or two things
which are of no moment. The most important is a great silver epergne
which my great-uncle Joseph gave me when I was married, and which I
felt I must keep out on the sideboard, as he is always popping in to
lunch in the most unexpected fashion, and his feelings would have been
deeply hurt if he had missed it. He thought it a most wonderful work
of art, while I sometimes felt as if I would like to give it to a
bazaar or something, just to get it out of the way. So now it is gone
without hurting anyone’s feelings, and I do not mourn it. Besides,’ she
went on, ‘that party was not nearly as nice as this one—was it, Isobel?
We had not Uncle Jack, nor Aunt Dora, nor little Dorothy; and we did
not even know Mr Maxwell’s name then.’
‘Me don’t know him now,’ said little Dorothy, who always said straight
out what she thought, and who had been studying the strange gentleman
all tea-time, with great wondering eyes, from her place of honour at
Vivian’s right hand.
‘Don’t you, young lady,’ said Mr Maxwell, pushing back his chair, among
general laughter, and coming round to where she sat. ‘Ah, then I cannot
take you round the garden pickaback; I only do that to people whom I
know.’
‘Oh, but me will know you now,’ cried Dorothy, who dearly loved this
mode of travelling, stretching out her arms to the kind, worn face
which always exercised a peculiar fascination over children; and, in
the roars of laughter which greeted this sudden change of opinion, the
threatened cloud was forgotten, and Vivian’s face grew bright once more.
So once again the old story proved true all through, and the little
prodigal coming back to his own country found, instead of the stern
welcome which he had expected, only laughing and feasting and
rejoicing. And here, in his new home, we may say good-bye to him for
he has learned his bitter lesson, and learned it well. And no truer
resolve was ever made, or more faithfully kept, than the one he made
that night when he was alone with his mother in the little bedroom
which opened out of Ronald’s, and which was to belong to him, that from
henceforth he would strive with all his might against his besetting
sin, and that when he was overcome by it—as all of us are, many times,
by our own special temptations—he would not try to hide it, but would
own up at once fully and freely, and then begin again with fresh energy
to fight his battle with all his might.
THE END.
Edinburgh:
Printed by W. & R. Chambers, Limited.
* * * * *
Transcriber’s Notes:
Obvious punctuation errors repaired.
Page 195, repeated word “as” removed from text (’Tain’t as if ’e had)
Page 226, paragraph break inserted after (‘How far is it to Carhaix?’
he repeated.)
End of Project Gutenberg's Vivian's Lesson, by Elizabeth W. Grierson