Lindsay's Luck
One day, shortly before Whitsuntide, Irene Spencer walked into the
third-class schoolroom with a letter in her hand, and a look on her face
which proclaimed news of some importance.
"I don't believe any of you will ever guess what I've come to tell you,"
she announced. "I've heard this morning from my aunt at Linforth
Vicarage. She writes asking me to spend a few days there at Whitsuntide
(we are to have a short holiday, you know), and she says: 'We have asked
Monica Courtenay, and we should be very pleased if Miss Russell would
also allow you to bring one of your younger schoolfellows who would
prove a nice companion for Rhoda.' My cousin Rhoda is twelve, so I have
to pick out one from among you six. Whichever it is will have an
uncommonly jolly visit, because we always have glorious times at
Linforth."
"How delightful! Oh, do take me!" exclaimed the six in chorus, each
enchanted with such a tempting prospect, and anxious to be the chosen
favourite.
"I wish I could take you all," replied Irene, "but unfortunately the
invitation is only for one. Miss Russell says this will be the best way
to arrange it. The girl who is nearest to Rhoda's age must go. Will you
each tell me the date of your birthday, and then I shall be able to
decide. Rhoda's is on the twentieth of March."
It certainly seemed the fairest way of settling the question, and one
against which there could be no appeal.
"Miss Russell is a modern Solomon," declared Cicely. "I'm afraid I
haven't the slightest chance, because I'm only eleven and a half, and so
is Nora."
"I'm almost thirteen," wailed Beryl. "I wish I were a few months
younger. Effie, I shall be horribly jealous if the chance falls to you."
"No such luck! I am a Christmas child," returned Effie. "I believe
Marjorie is nearer."
"The twenty-seventh of February. Can anybody do better than that?" asked
Marjorie hopefully.
"Mine is the sixth of April," said Lindsay.
"About as much after Rhoda's as Marjorie's is before," said Irene. "We
must count it up exactly. Somebody give me a pencil and a piece of
paper. Let me see, the twenty-seventh of February to the twentieth of
March is twenty-one days, and the twentieth of March to the sixth of
April is only seventeen. Then Lindsay is nearer by four days."
"Hurrah!" cried Lindsay, clapping her hands, "I'm glad I wasn't born a
week later. How dreadfully sorry I am for you all, especially Marjorie!"
"My aunt says she will send the trap for us on Friday afternoon,"
continued Irene. "And we are to stay until Tuesday morning, so that will
give us three whole days at Linforth. I'm sure you'll like Rhoda, and my
other cousins too. There are eight of them altogether. Meta, the eldest,
is seventeen; she's going to study music in Germany next September.
Ralph and Leonard are fifteen and fourteen; they go to the Appleford
Grammar School, and ride there every day on their bicycles. Then comes
Rhoda, and there are four little ones. They do lessons with a governess,
but perhaps some time Rhoda is to be sent to Winterburn Lodge. Aunt
Esther says she shan't treat us as visitors; we must make ourselves at
home amongst the others."
The visit seemed an event worth looking forward to, not only on its own
account, but because Monica was to be one of the party. Lindsay could
hardly believe her good fortune, and rejoiced again and again over the
happy date of her birthday. She was in a state of great excitement on
the Friday afternoon, when the phaeton arrived with Monica already
installed on the front seat. To drive away in such company was indeed a
matter for congratulation, and she felt much sympathy for the
disconsolate five who were perforce left behind, especially for poor
Cicely, who would miss her more than anybody, and whose eyes were full
of tears at the parting.
"Never mind," she whispered to the latter, "perhaps it will be your turn
next time for something nice. At any rate, I shall have heaps to tell
you when I come back."
Linforth Vicarage was a long, rambling stone house, the flagged roof and
mullioned windows of which proclaimed it as belonging, equally with the
Manor, to a period of the past. It was a delightful, roomy, almost
medieval kind of a place, so picturesque, in its old-world fashion, that
one could forgive the lowness of the rooms, the narrowness of the
passages, the steepness of the stairs, and the inconvenience of the fact
that the front door opened directly into the dining-room, and the
bedrooms nearly all led into one another. None of these drawbacks seemed
to distress the young Greenwoods, who thought their home the nicest spot
in the world. They were a particularly jolly, merry, happy-go-lucky
family, full of jokes and noise. Rhoda, for whose benefit Lindsay had
been invited, received her visitor with enthusiasm.
"I'm so glad Miss Russell let you come!" she said. "You see, Meta will
monopolize Irene and Monica, and I should have been left out altogether.
I'm delighted to have someone of my own age."
Monica was a great favourite in the household, and held in request by
all, from Mr. and Mrs. Greenwood to Cyril, the baby. As Rhoda had
prophesied, however, she disappeared after tea with Meta and Irene, the
three elder girls evidently wishing to have a chat in private. Rhoda
made an effort to secure Lindsay to herself, but the four little
ones--Wilfred, Alwyn, Joan, and Cyril--begged so piteously not to be
banished from the society of the interesting visitor that in the end she
yielded, and allowed them to help to exhibit the various treasures in
the garden which she wished to show to her new friend.
The Greenwoods had quite a menagerie in the way of pets. They kept them
in a disused stable, in neat cages with wire fronts, most of which had
been made by Ralph and Leonard. There were silky-haired, lop-eared
rabbits, that could be hugged in small arms without offering any
remonstrances; bright-eyed little guinea-pigs, which often caused
exciting chases by escaping from their owners' embraces and hiding away
behind the cages; a family of piebald mice, consisting of a mother and
five young ones, which generally went to bed in the daytime, and had to
be poked out of their sleeping quarters with a lead pencil to make them
show themselves; a morose-looking tortoise that would allow Wilfred to
scratch its head, but spat indignantly at the others; and a whole box
full of silkworms in various stages, from tiny, wriggling black threads
to chrysalids in cocoons. The children were accompanied to the stable by
a sharp little black Pomeranian; but they were obliged to leave him
outside in case he might hurt the rabbits, and he sat howling dolefully
on the doorstep until they came out again. He escorted them into the
garden afterwards, however, and so did a large nondescript kind of yard
dog, which was called Bootles, and which allowed itself to be harnessed
to a mail-cart, and drew Cyril up and down the path.
"I want to show you our fruit trees," said Rhoda, leading the way to the
orchard. "We each have one of our very own, planted as soon as we were
born. Meta, Ralph, and Leonard have apples, Wilfred and Alwyn pears,
mine is a Victoria plum, Joan has a greengage, and Cyril a black cherry.
You see, they stand in a row, away from the other trees, so we call this
our part of the orchard."
"Whose is the ninth?" enquired Lindsay, looking at a fine pear tree
which headed the line.
"That belonged to our eldest brother," said Rhoda. "He died before I
can remember, but we still call it 'Herbert's tree'. The pears are
always ripe every year on his birthday, so we pick them all and pack
them carefully in a box, and send them to a children's hospital in
London. Mother sends the money she would have spent on his birthday
present too. They're the most beautiful pears, the best we have, and we
thought that was the nicest thing we could do with them."
The Greenwoods' little gardens were as interesting as their fruit trees.
Each child appeared to have been trying a different experiment. Wilfred
had made a pond in his by sinking an old wooden tub in the ground, and
was trying to persuade a water-lily to grow in it. He had planted a
clump of iris and some forget-me-nots at the edge, which hung over
rather gracefully, and really looked quite pretty. He kept several frogs
to swim about in the water, though the constant catching of these rather
interfered with the wellbeing of the struggling lily. Alwyn had built a
miniature house in her plot out of old bricks and stones, and had
thatched it neatly with straw. She had made a gravel path up to the
front door, and had sown grass to represent lawns, and cut a round
flower bed in the middle of each. Joan's garden was subject to violent
changes. Last year it had been a potato patch, but as she dug up those
useful vegetables every day to see how they were sprouting, it was not
surprising that they refused to make much growth. Lately she had
converted the whole into a dolls' cemetery, and, with Cyril's aid,
keenly enjoyed conducting the funerals of various headless favourites,
waxing so enthusiastic over the obsequies that she even buried several
quite respectable wax babies, though, regretting their loss afterwards,
she was eventually forced to dig them up again. She put tombstones at
the heads of the graves, made of slates from the roof of a tumble-down
shed, and carefully wrote names, dates, and epitaphs upon them in slate
pencil, being greatly distressed when the inscriptions were invariably
obliterated by every fresh shower of rain.
Cyril had sown the letters of his name in mustard and cress, which were
just coming up fresh and green, and would soon be ready to cut. He also
had some bulbs under pieces of glass in a corner which he called his
hothouse. Ralph and Leonard were so busy at school that their gardens
appeared to be mostly cared for by Rhoda, who had a very ambitious
scheme for her own.
"I want to make a floral clock," she explained. "You see, I've dug a
round face and marked it out into twelve parts, and I'm going to put
each figure in different-coloured flowers. Then I thought if I could fix
a pole in the middle it ought to cast a shadow, and tell the time like a
sundial. I've made it north, south, east, and west by my compass, and
it will be most delightful if I can only get it to work."
Rhoda had almost as much to show Lindsay in the house as out-of-doors.
There was her bedroom, a tiny sanctum where she kept all her special
treasures out of the way of the children's meddlesome fingers. It was a
very old-fashioned little room, with a low, black-beamed ceiling, and a
window that opened on to a small balcony, where she could grow
nasturtiums and other trailing plants in pots. The walls were covered
with pictures in home-made frames, wonderful arrangements of corks,
acorns, shells, or plaited straw; and there were quite a nice
writing-table and some wonderful bookcases.
"The boys made these out of old boxes," said Rhoda. "They learn how in
their carpentry class at school, and they did them to surprise me on my
birthday. I keep all my books here. Father is giving me the poets now as
Christmas presents. I have Longfellow and Shakespeare and Wordsworth,
and I expect it will be either Cowper or Goldsmith next time. This is my
paint-box. I daren't leave it in the schoolroom for fear of the little
ones getting hold of it. Isn't it a beauty? Miss Johnson, our governess,
gave it to me as a prize for passing the Trinity College exam. in piano
and theory."
"Do you like music?" asked Lindsay.
"Yes, I think I'm rather fond of it. Miss Johnson wanted me to go in for
this exam.; she said it would be something to practise for. We had to go
to Bridgend to take it. It was rather fun, for we were the whole day in
getting there and back, and luckily I wasn't a scrap nervous. Do you
play?"
"A little," replied Lindsay. "I'm learning the violin, but I can't have
any lessons at the Manor."
"I wish you could come over and help us at one of our temperance
concerts."
"Oh, I should be much too frightened!" exclaimed Lindsay, in horror.
"You needn't mind in a little village like this," declared Rhoda. "The
people would think whatever you did was splendid. They clap at
everything, even when Ralph gives nigger songs; and he's got no voice,
and the banjo's generally out of tune, so that he's singing away in one
key and playing in another."
"I don't know whether I could promise to keep in tune," laughed Lindsay.
"Do you play at these concerts?"
"Yes, nearly always. It was a little awkward last time, because
something had gone wrong with the keys of the piano. They stuck down,
and I had to get Wilfred to sit underneath and keep poking them up as
fast as I played on them, or else half the notes wouldn't sound; and it
seemed so queer to only get part of a chord, and to miss the middle of
a run. It quite put me out. I suppose it was the damp that caused it. We
must get a tuner to come and see to it."
"Did the people applaud?"
"Yes, tremendously. I think it amused them to see Wilfred sitting
underneath. They simply roared every time he pushed up the keys. It was
as good as a comic song. It really is tiresome, though, to have a piano
like that at the school. John Crosby, the stonemason's little boy, sings
very nicely, and I went so wrong in playing his accompaniment, through
losing so many of the notes, that he finished half a verse ahead of me.
I apologized to him afterwards, but he said he didn't think anyone had
noticed it!"
Lindsay found it quite a novel and entertaining experience to stay in
the midst of such a large, enterprising, lively family as the
Greenwoods. From Meta, the eldest, to Cyril, the baby, hardly out of
petticoats, all had very decided opinions of their own, which they urged
and argued with considerable force of character, but an amount of good
temper which spoke well for their training. Mrs. Greenwood, who thought
quarrelling greatly a matter of habit, insisted upon a certain standard
of home politeness being maintained, and would tolerate neither
domineering in the elder ones nor whining amongst the younger.
"You can discuss a subject perfectly well without being rude to each
other when you differ," she declared. "You must take it in turns to have
your own way. It is not fair that the eldest should always arrange
everything, but on the other hand Joan and Alwyn will get nothing at all
if they begin to wail and complain in that most grumbling and unpleasant
tone of voice. I think it is a disgrace if you're all so selfish that
you can't agree. You must each be prepared to give up a certain amount,
for among eight children it is quite impossible for every one to be
first and foremost."
Irene, being the Greenwoods' cousin, was accustomed to their tempestuous
ways, and ready to hold her own amongst them; while Monica looked on
with an amused smile, without taking part in any arguments or disputes.
There was certainly plenty to do at the Vicarage, and none of the three
guests could complain that the holiday was dull.
On Saturday afternoon Meta, Rhoda, and the two eldest boys arranged that
they should make an expedition to a large lake about a couple of miles
away. They had been promised the loan of a boat there, and they proposed
to take their visitors for a trip on the water. They started off with
baskets of provisions, intending to land and have a picnic tea, if they
could find sufficient dry sticks upon the banks to light a fire and boil
their kettle. Both Meta and her brothers could row well, so the boat
was soon skimming over the lake in a delightfully smooth and
satisfactory fashion.
"We daren't anchor anywhere near the woods," declared Meta, "Sir Percy
Harwood, the owner, is so very strict about trespassing."
"Yes, the keepers are down on you if you even go a few yards into the
preserves," agreed Ralph. "Look here! What do you say to camping out on
that little island? There can't be any pheasants there to scare, and we
ought to get plenty of sticks."
The island in question was a small, green-looking collection of hazel
bushes and birch trees, well out in the middle of the lake. It had an
attractive appearance, so they rowed through the quiet stretch of water
that separated them from it, and ran the boat in among the reeds that
grew at the edge.
"It seems rather jolly," said Rhoda. "Suppose we leave the baskets here,
and go and explore first to find a good place?"
"It's quite romantic," declared Irene, "like Ellen's Isle in the _Lady
of the Lake_. We ought to find a hunting-lodge among the trees, and an
interesting outlaw living there."
"More likely to find a poacher!" laughed Ralph; "though there'd be
nothing for him to trap here, unless he kept a boat stowed away in the
reeds, and took midnight excursions into the woods."
"I think it's the kind of place for a hermit," said Monica. "He could
have had a little cell and told his beads without being disturbed by
anybody, except an occasional knight-errant who would blow a horn from
the opposite bank. I wonder if one ever lived here?"
"The landlords couldn't have been so particular about trespassing in
those days, then, if he did," replied Leonard. "I don't believe Sir
Percy Harwood would let anybody settle so near his pheasants; he'd
suspect steel traps or wire snares under the cassock, and expect to hear
a shot in the woods instead of a vesper bell."
"We'll tie the boat to this old stump," said Ralph. "Be careful where
you step in getting off--the ground seems fearfully soppy. Perhaps it
may be better higher up. Let us come on a little. I say, there's
something rather queer about it, isn't there?"
There certainly was something decidedly queer. The green mossy earth
under their feet gave way as if they were treading upon a feather bed.
At each step it sank with a curious squelching sound, and rose behind
with the elasticity of a cork, so that as they sprang here and there the
whole of the little island appeared to be bounding up and down beneath
them, as Leonard expressed it, "just like a spring mattress when you
jump on it".
"The ground is so funny, too," said Meta, poking about with a stick; "it
doesn't seem proper soil, only roots and moss and grass growing through
it. Why, this stick goes down ever such a long way, and there's actually
water coming up!"
The others all came to investigate, and standing close together began to
dig their sticks into the curious heaving surface. It bore their
combined weight for a moment or two, then sinking suddenly, like a
punctured indiarubber ball, it collapsed, and they found themselves
struggling nearly up to their waists in water. Luckily they were able to
clutch at the hazel bushes above, and, by swinging themselves along the
branches, to arrive at a firmer foothold, though even there the ground
felt very insecure and spongy, and little dark pools came oozing up with
every step.
"We must keep as far apart from each other as we can," shouted Ralph;
"the wretched place has no solid foundation, it's only a collection of
sticks and leaves. Cling to the trees, and try to get back to the boat
before you go in any deeper. Don't put your weight on it! It's like
walking on thin ice."
Very wet and muddy, and somewhat frightened, the explorers picked their
way carefully back, treading as much as possible on the roots of the
trees, and never letting go their hold of the boughs. They scrambled
into the boat again with considerable relief, and held a review of
their damaged garments.
"I'm soaked to the skin!" declared Rhoda. "It's a horrible nuisance.
Look at Lindsay!"
"I don't mind my clothes so much, if it weren't so uncomfortable. My
dress will wash," said Lindsay.
"Mine won't though, I'm sorry to say!" groaned Irene.
"I was carrying the cakes, and they're wet through, and not fit to eat,"
announced Leonard.
"The island is a perfect trap," said Meta, trying to squeeze the muddy
water from her own dress and Monica's. "I believe it's nothing but a
kind of raft, made out of all the dead wood and rubbish that have
accumulated in the lake. I expect seeds have blown on to it, and then
trees and bushes have sprung up. Now I think of it, I don't believe it
was in the same place last year, so it must be able to float. We shall
have to go home; we can't stop and picnic when we're drenched like
this."
"I wonder how the hermit managed, if he ever lived there?" said Monica.
"It must have been an excellent penance, with a chance of martyrdom at
the end of it," returned Ralph. "Well, I must say we have given our
visitors a pleasant afternoon! They won't want to take this as a
specimen of our picnics. No good offering tea and cake in this
condition!"
"I'd rather have a cake of soap and a can of hot water!" said Irene.
"Never mind!" said Leonard consolingly. "I vote we go up Pendle Tor on
Monday. We can boil a kettle there, and have no end of fun. If you've
never been before, I expect you'll say it makes up for this."