AT MARSHLANDS AGAIN
"Each year to ancient friendships adds a ring,
As to an oak, and precious more and more,
Without deservingness, or help of ours
They grow, and, silent, wider spread each year
Their unbought ring of shelter or of shade."
I had so many visits to pay to various friends and relations of my
father, who took a kindly interest in my welfare, that it was not until
the following Easter-time that I was able to accept Mrs. Winstanley's
oft-repeated invitation that I should spend a second holiday at
Marshlands. How familiar the dear little station looked as Cathy and I
turned out our numerous bags and packages upon the platform at Everton!
The very porter knew me again, and greeted me with a grin of welcome;
and every house, and tree, and bend of the road as we drove home through
the village, felt to me like an old friend.
"Well, Miss Humming-bird, you have grown out of all knowledge!" said the
squire. "The gray pony is still at your service, and there's a nice
light little rod-and-line we could soon teach you to whip the stream
with. We'll make a sportswoman of you yet, I declare!"
Mrs. Winstanley welcomed me home equally with Cathy.
"I'm longing to see your Nature Note-Book," she said. "You must have
made many additions since last we met. The wild daffodils are out in the
Wyngates meadows, the herons are building in the wood by Carnton Fell,
and I have found the remains of another stone circle on the moors, so we
shall have plenty of objects for our walks."
To revisit all our old haunts was an immense delight. The rose-tree
which I had planted by Edward's arbour had grown into quite a large
bush, the tempestuous poodle puppies had settled down into sober,
steady-going, well-conducted dogs, which regarded with much disfavour
the harum-scarum ways of a youthful Skye terrier, which was the latest
favourite. Cathy had a fresh pony, a beautiful little chestnut called
Selim, which ran with Lady in the new phaeton, and the rock garden which
we had made at the end of the shrubbery was flourishing in the most
satisfactory manner.
I found the boys much changed. Edward was very tall, and had begun to
speak meditatively of Oxford. He still drawled a little, and fussed
over his clothes, but he had taken keenly to politics, and aired
socialistic theories which he argued hotly with the squire. Dick had
grown quite polite, comparatively speaking, and offered to teach me
golf, but we had so many other occupations on hand that I never found
time to learn. George had got over the stage of keeping white mice in
his pockets, and talked mostly about cricket; he was still at his
preparatory school, but he was to leave soon for a training-college for
the Navy. They were all as full of fun and chaff as ever, and laughed
yet over the remembrance of our joke with the burglar.
Marshlands looked beautiful in the spring-time. The cherry orchards were
in full blossom, the woods were tinged with the faintest of tender
greens, and we found violets in every hedgerow. It was early April, and
the distant fells were capped with snow, while the air had enough of a
northern chill in it to make quick walking a pleasure. We were close to
the lake country, on the borders of that mountain district where crag
and moorland, pine-wood and tarn combine to make some of the most
glorious scenery in the British Isles. I have always had an extreme
love for the hills, whether they were the rocky sierras of my childhood,
or the rugged peaks of Cumberland. Once up on the slopes, with the fresh
wind blowing on your cheek, and the valley spread out like a map below,
you feel as if you had left the cares of the world behind, and were in a
different moral as well as physical atmosphere. If it is true that our
surroundings really have an effect upon our characters, I think that
those who live on a mountain can never be quite so petty and mean-minded
as the dwellers in the plain beneath; something in the majesty of those
peaks must surely draw them up, and lift their thoughts towards that
other world that is higher than ours.
The days were not half long enough for all our delightful projects. Mr.
Winstanley had fulfilled his promise of teaching me to fish, and, armed
with the light rod-and-line, I industriously and laboriously whipped the
stream; but I fear I was anything but a "compleat angler", for very few
of my contributions went to fill the baskets of silvery trout which the
boys seemed to catch so cleverly.
"I'm afraid a fisherman is something like a poet, 'born, not made'," I
sighed, as I watched Dick choose a fresh fly and secure a catch in the
very pool where I had tried for half an hour in vain.
"Oh, it's partly practice!" said Dick, "you'll get into it in time. It's
rather slow work, though, and I'm jolly savage myself, sometimes, when I
can't get a bite, and feel inclined to agree with Dr. Johnson that a
fisherman is 'a worm at one end, and a fool at the other'. That old chap
knew life! I'll tell you what; if the governor's willing, we'll get him
to take us over for a day to Craigdale, and we'll have a boat and try
some sea-fishing. I dare say you'll get on better with the flukes and
haddock."
Good-natured Mr. Winstanley proved to be more than willing, so one sunny
morning we packed ourselves into the phaeton and dog-cart, and started
off on the nine-mile drive to the little fishing-village which was our
nearest point on the sea-coast. Craigdale seemed to be a mere handful of
whitewashed cottages set in the midst of a sandy marsh, where hardy
sea-flowers were springing up and blooming on the wind-swept ridges, and
terns and sand-pipers were darting here and there at the edge of the
waves, in chase of some detached limpet or scuttling crab. We put up the
traps at a small inn called the "Mermaid Arms", the sign-board of which
was adorned with a most remarkable painting of a sea-maiden with fish's
tail, comb and looking-glass, all complete, ready no doubt to bewitch
too venturesome sailors to their doom. The stout, bustling landlady
readily agreed to provide us with the best she could muster at so short
a notice, and in a very brief time she had produced a smoking dish of
ham and eggs, which with brown bread and Cumberland cream cheese we
thought a fare not at all to be despised. We made quick work of our
lunch, however, being anxious to start off in the boat which was waiting
for us down by the jetty, where a bluff, jolly old fisherman was ready
with bait and sea-lines. Strange to say, it was the first time I had
ever been out in a rowing-boat. Although I had paid several visits to
the sea-side with Aunt Agatha and my cousins, we had generally kept to
the pier and promenade, and had never ventured upon the briny deep in
anything of less size than an Isle of Wight steamer. It was a delightful
novelty to find myself so close to the waves that I could hold my hand
in the rushing water, and could almost catch the long trails of sea-weed
and the great jelly-fishes which floated every now and then past our
boat. We rowed out a short distance into the bay, and then cast anchor,
as our boatmen assured us that it was a good spot to let down the lines,
and we should be certain of having plenty of bites. There was a stiff
breeze blowing, and the white caps on the distant waves looked like wild
sea-horses chasing each other over the foam; the tide was coming in
fast, and our boat swayed to and fro like a cork upon the heavy swell.
"Isn't it jolly?" said George; "I like to be 'rocked in the cradle of
the deep'. I mean to be a sailor when I grow up; there's no life like 'a
life on the ocean wave'. Hullo, Phil! You don't seem as though you were
enjoying yourself! Just look at her, Mater! Her face is the colour of a
boiled turnip!"
I certainly was _not_ enjoying myself, for the horrible swinging motion
had brought on that peculiar complaint which the French call "mal de
mer", and I could only gasp out an entreaty to be taken back anywhere so
that I might find my feet upon dry land again.
"Bless the child! I didn't think such a little would upset her!" said
the squire, whose own family were all excellent sailors. "Wind up the
lines, and we'll row back to the jetty and land her. She'll have to
amuse herself on the beach as best she can."
"You'll never make a fisherwoman after all!" laughed Dick, as he helped
me to jump out on to the narrow landing-place. "I vowed you should catch
at least ten flukes this afternoon, and you've given in before you've
had a single bite!"
"I don't care if I never see a fish again!" I said. "You're welcome to
my share of them all, and can eat them too, if you like. I'm only too
glad to be on terra firma once more, and I wouldn't stay in that little
wobbling cockle-shell any longer if you were to offer me a five-pound
note for every fish I caught."
But though my fishing efforts had turned out such a disastrous failure,
I found I got on much better with riding. Sometimes Cathy and I would go
out on Selim and Lady, with the squire or one of the boys on Captain,
and then I thought nothing could equal the joy of the brisk canter over
the moors, with the dogs racing behind us, and the screaming sea-birds
flying away in front. It was delightful to feel the quick motion of the
pony under me, as we rapidly covered the ground; and I improved so much
that Mr. Winstanley declared he would make a horsewoman of me in the
end, and that I should follow the hounds next time I came in the hunting
season.
Perhaps of all our expeditions I enjoyed our walks the most. To ramble
about the lanes and fields in search of nests or wild flowers was to me
always an endless pleasure. Finding that I had never picked wild
daffodils before, Cathy suggested one morning that we should walk to
Wyngates, where they grew so lavishly that the marshy meadows were
literally yellow with them. So with our baskets on our arms, and the new
Skye terrier for company, we started off in high spirits. Our way led up
a steep lane, the sloping banks of which were spangled with primroses
and celandine, while the rough-built walls at the top gave a hold to
trailing honeysuckle, ivy, and hazel bushes. It was a grand place for
birds' nests, and we made very slow progress as we poked about, peering
into every likely-looking spot. Cathy, through long experience, was much
more clever at discovering them than I, and while she found three
thrushes', a wren's, and two chaffinches', my efforts were only rewarded
by a solitary hedge-sparrow's. I had had a kodak for my last birthday
present, and I was very anxious to take some snap-shots of the young
birds in their nests, fired thereto by the beautiful nature photographs
I had seen in the illustrated papers. With a good deal of climbing and
difficulty I managed to secure various views of Mrs. Thrush at home,
Mrs. Chaffinch's nursery, and the five Miss Hedge-sparrows clamouring
for a meal. I used a whole spool of films over them, only to find, when
with Dick's assistance I developed them afterwards, that my little
camera was not intended for such near distances, and my pictures were so
hopelessly out of focus that they were utterly spoilt.
"It's an awful sell, and you've wasted a dozen films," said Dick. "I
believe you ought to have a special lens for these nature dodges. Your
kodak won't take nearer than seven feet off. Never mind, the ones of the
Mater and the house and the village are stunning, and you'll get some
good snap-shots when we go over Carnton Fell to the sheep-counting."
But to return to our walk. Leaving the lane and the birds' nests behind,
we were soon on the open moor, with the brown of last year's heather
around us, and the gorse in brilliant patches of gold scenting the air
with its faint peachy smell. Innumerable little mountain springs crossed
our path, cutting channels through the peat, and overhung with
lady-fern and sedges, and here and there among the furze the shoots of
the young bracken were springing green. We cut down a deep gorge into
the valley, following the course of a swift stream which was descending
with much noise to join the river, and found ourselves at last on a kind
of rushy marshland, where deep dykes and high banks told a tale of
flooded meadows in winter. It might aptly have been called "The Field of
the Cloth of Gold", for the daffodils were growing in such endless
profusion that one could have picked for a week without stopping. I
filled my basket with infinite satisfaction, and sat down on an old
poplar stump to wait for Cathy, who thought she had discovered some new
snail-shells in the brook.
"What's that house up there?" I asked, pointing to a gray old Tudor
building which stood on the side of the crag above, looking down over
the valley towards the dim line of the distant sea.
"Oh, that's Wyngates," said Cathy, pulling herself up the bank with her
hands full of treasures. "It's such a dear old place! Would you like to
go and see it? Nobody lives there now, and I know the care-taker. I
always think it is such fun to explore an empty house."
I had not been over an untenanted home before, so I jumped at the
opportunity, and we climbed up the hill-side again to a little iron gate
which opened through the hedge from the fields. We found ourselves in an
old-world garden such as I had never even imagined. The tall yew hedges
had been clipped smooth, with here and there a small window cut in them
through which the distant landscape appeared like a picture set in a
frame. At either end the trees were fashioned into quaint
shapes--peacocks with spreading tails, cocked hats, or ramping lions,
all getting a little straggling and untended, but adding a very
picturesque feature to the scene. There was a long flagged terrace, with
dandelions pushing up between the stones, and roses, grown almost wild,
climbing in glorious profusion over the balustrade, while a flight of
steps led down to the ladies' pleasaunce, where the narrow grass walks
were bordered with box-edgings, and pink daisies and forget-me-nots were
trying to struggle through the weeds in the neglected beds. In the
centre was a sun-dial with twisted shaft, and an inscription round the
capital. We rubbed away the moss which covered the worn letters, and
spelt out the words, written in old English characters:
"NESCIES + QUA + HORA + VIGILA",
which we were not Latin scholars enough at the time to be able to
translate, but which I afterwards learnt meant "Thou knowest not at what
hour. Watch!" I wondered, as I looked, how many footsteps, in the
centuries that had fled, had passed up and down that terraced walk, and
how many quaint little maidens as young and gay as we, had come to tell
the time by that dial, and had read that same motto, "wrought in dead
days by men a long while dead". The blossom from the almond-tree above
fell on us like pink snow, and a thrush in the lilac bush was ruffling
every feather on his little throat in the rapture of his spring song.
"If I could choose any spot in the world I wished, I think I should come
to live here," I said, with a long sigh of content as I looked over the
sweet-brier fence down the valley to where in the distance gleamed the
bay, a faint gray streak against a patch of yellow sand, with the
outline of the fells rising up misty and blue behind. Cathy smiled.
"You haven't seen the house yet," she said. "You couldn't live only in a
garden."
"I should like to," I replied. "I'd any time rather have a cottage with
a beautiful garden, than the most splendid mansion without one. I think
out-of-doors is so much nicer than indoors. Perhaps it's my bringing up.
In San Carlos we lived mostly in the verandah and on the terrace."
The house proved to be a quaint old stone manor, not large, and quite
unpretentious, the kind of dwelling that was built in days gone by for
the younger sons of gentry, who farmed a little land, and rode to
hounds. Cathy begged the key from the care-taker at the lodge, and we
wandered round the panelled rooms, wondering at the black oak beams of
the ceilings, and the delightful ingle-nooks of the wide old-fashioned
fireplaces.
"How splendid they would look full of blazing logs!" said Cathy. "These
old walls ought to be hung with garlands of holly and mistletoe. It
would just be the place for a Christmas party."
One room especially fascinated me. It was a small chamber half-way up
the stairs, built above the porch, with a large mullioned window from
which one looked out over the garden to the very limit of the horizon.
The chimney-piece was richly carved, and panelled with coats of arms,
but the central panel was occupied by a small oil-painting of a laughing
girl, with lace ruffles and flowered bodice, whose fair hair fell in
loose curls over her neck and shoulders. So lifelike was the portrait,
that for a moment I felt as if the parted red lips were about to speak,
and almost waited for the words, while the bright eyes seemed to look
out from the wall as if they were following us round the room. In the
extreme right-hand corner of the picture was painted the name: "Philippa
Lovell".
"Who is she?" said Cathy, in response to my eager enquiries. "Why, the
Lovells were a very old family who lived here in the time of the civil
wars. Her father was for the King, but her only brother had declared for
Cromwell and the Parliament. They met in battle at Naseby, and both
fell, each fighting bravely for his own opinions. So the girl was the
last of the race. She was a ward of Charles II, and he married her to
one of his favourites, who cared for nothing but her lands and her
money. She was miserable and ill at the London court, and at last she
got leave to return to Cumberland; but it was too late, for she only
came home to die. You can see her monument in the church, next to that
of her father and brother; the Lovell coat of arms hangs over them all,
and the words 'Sic transit gloria mundi'."
So this was the story of my poor little namesake. Her smiles had indeed
soon been changed into tears, and very sad eyes must have looked out
from the mullioned window to the distant sea. I felt as if the room were
still occupied by her memory, and I closed the door almost reverently as
I went out, murmuring to myself those lines from Longfellow:--
"We have no title-deeds to house or lands;
Owners and occupants of earlier dates
From graves forgotten stretch their dusty hands,
And hold in mortmain still their old estates".