“BREAD AND SALT.”
I thought Mrs. Markham looked somewhat displeased.
“We must ask your mother’s permission, Master Rolf;” then, turning to
her, “I hope you will allow him to go with us this afternoon,” for,
in spite of his rude ways, I felt full of pity for the lonely little
boy; he seemed to have no playfellows except poor Judson, who was a
low-spirited, overworked young woman. It must have been dreary for him
to be in a household of grown-up people, who all voted him a plague and
took no trouble to amuse him. Spoilt children are seldom happy ones;
and it did not need a second look at Rolf’s pale, sickly face to read
the lines of discontent and peevishness.
“I am rather surprised that Miss Fenton should make such a request
after her treatment of my boy yesterday,” returned Mrs. Markham,
ungraciously. I think if she had dared to contradict Rolf she would not
have given her consent, but a sulky look was already clouding his face.
“Never mind about that,” he said, impatiently; “Miss Fenton is going to
make the tail for my kite; and I am going out with her this afternoon,
and I shall and will go.”
“Master Rolf, that is not the way to answer your mother.”
“You may leave me to rebuke my own child,” she observed, coldly. “Very
well, Rolf; you may go, but you need not be so cross about it. I came
to see about the children, Miss Fenton; I think it is too hot for them
to go on the beach this afternoon.”
“Joyce will wear her sun-bonnet; and there is a nice breeze,” I
returned, somewhat ruffled by this interference. I fancy she did it to
aggravate me, for there was no fault to be found with the weather, and
I knew my mistress always left these things to me.
She remained for a few minutes making little suggestions about the
ventilation and the nursery arrangements, which I bore as patiently as
I could, though the harsh, metallic voice irritated me dreadfully. I
did not wish to be disrespectful to Mrs. Markham, but I did not feel
bound to obey her orders, and I knew I should tell her so if any grave
dispute arose between us. I was rather relieved when she left the room
at last, taking Rolf with her; but a few minutes afterwards Judson
glided in on tiptoe.
“Oh, Miss Fenton,” she said, in a pathetic voice, “I am so grateful
to you for promising to take charge of Master Rolf this afternoon; I
thought there would be such a piece of work; Master Rolf thought he
was going out in the carriage, and Mrs. Markham has friends and cannot
find room for him; and what I should have done with him I hardly know,
all the afternoon.”
“If Rolf is good I have no objection to take charge of him; I am very
fond of children, only they must be obedient.”
“Obedience is an unknown word to Master Rolf,” returned Judson,
lugubriously; “times out of number that boy has got me into trouble,
just because he would not mind a word I said. Why, he got the colonel’s
sword out of his mother’s wardrobe one day and nearly killed himself,
and another morning he fired off his grandfather’s gun, that had been
loaded by mistake, and shot poor old Pincher, not that he meant to do
it; he was aiming at one of the pheasants.”
This was not pleasant to hear, and I inwardly resolved not to trust the
children out of my sight; for who could tell what unforeseen accident
might arise from Rolf’s recklessness?
“Mrs. Markham blames me for all that happens,” went on Judson, “and
Master Rolf knows that, and there is no checking him; he is not nearly
so mischievous when his mother is near, because she loses patience, and
has more than once boxed his ears soundly. She spoils him dreadfully,
and he takes liberties with her as no child ought to take with a
parent; but now and then, when he has aggravated her past bearing, I
have known her punish him pretty sharply.”
This was sad; injudicious indulgence, and injudicious severity. Who
could wonder if the results were unsatisfactory?
“No one dares to say a word to him except his mother,” went on Judson;
“it is just her temper when she flies out at him; but she worships the
very ground he walks on. If his finger aches she thinks he is going to
die, and the house is in an uproar; and yet when he is ill he is as
contrary as possible, and will not take a thing from her, for all her
petting and coaxing.”
It seemed a relief to Judson to pour out her woes, and I could
hardly refuse to listen to her. She was evidently attached to her
mistress, with whom she had lived since her marriage; but she was
one of those helpless beings who are made the butt of other people’s
wills and passions; she had no dignity of mind to repel even childish
impertinence; her nervous, vacillating ways would only increase Rolf’s
tyrannical nature.
I could understand how a high-spirited boy would resist any command
enforced by that plaintive voice. A few quick concise words would
influence him more than a torrent of feeble reproaches from Judson. He
was not without generous impulses—what English boy is?—he had grasped
at once my meaning when I rebuked him for his want of gentlemanly
honour, but he was precocious and over-bearing, and had lived too much
in the society of grown-up people.
My knowledge of the world was not great, but I know how deficient
in reticence many grown-up people are in the presence of children;
the stream of talk that is poured into the little pitchers is often
defiled with low conventional views of duty, and painfully uncharitable
remarks; the pure mirror of a child’s mind—and how pure that mind often
is!—is frequently sullied by some unchristian observations from lips
that to the child are half divine. “See how ye offend one of these
little ones,” was the Master’s warning; and yet if we could look into
one of these young minds, we should often see its placid serenity
broken up and ruffled by some unthinking speech, flung like a pitiless
pebble into its brightness.
After all, we spent a pleasant afternoon on the beach, and I do not
believe the children enjoyed themselves more than Hannah and I.
It was not a long walk to the shore if we had followed the direct
route; but I wanted to see the pretty village of Netherton more
closely; so we walked past the church and down the main street, and
turned off by the row of bungalows that skirted the cliff, and,
crossing the cornfields, made our way down a narrow cutting to a little
strip of shingly beach, with its border of yellow sands washed by the
summer surf. I would willingly have sat under the breakwater all the
afternoon, watching the baby waves lapping upon the sands, and laying
driblets of brown and green seaweed on the shore, while Reggie brought
me wet pebbles and little dried up crabs and empty mussel shells,
but Rolf wanted me to help with his sand castle; indeed, we were all
pressed into the service; even Reggie dug up tiny dabs of sand and
flung it at us, under the belief that he was helping too.
What a pretty scene it was, when the castle was finished, and its
ramparts adorned with long green festoons and pennants of brown
ribbons; and Reggie sat at the top kicking his little bare legs with
delight, while Rolf dug the trench down to the sea, which filled and
bubbled over in a miniature lake, in which disported the luckless crabs
and jelly fish which he had collected for his aquarium.
There is something sad in the transitoriness of children’s play on the
shore; they are so eager to build up their sand towers and mounds. When
the feeble structure is finished the little workpeople give a cry of
joy, as though some great task were accomplished. Then the waves creep
up stealthily; there is a little cold lisping outside the outworks, as
though the treacherous foes were lurking around; in a few seconds the
toy castle is in ruins. The children look at the grey pool that has
engulfed their treasure with wide, disappointed eyes.
“Oh, the greedy sea,” they say, “it has destroyed our castle!” But
to-morrow they will come again with beautiful childish faith and build
another, and still another, until some new game is proposed, or they
are weary of play.
It was quite late in the afternoon when we turned our faces homeward.
Joyce was tired, so we put her in the perambulator, and I carried
Reggie. Rolf hung behind rather sulkily; fatigue evidently made him
cross; but he brightened up in an instant when the sound of horses’
hoofs struck on our ears, and in another moment a little cavalcade came
in sight—Miss Cheriton mounted on her pretty brown mare Brownie, and
her father and Mr. Hawtry on each side of her.
She smiled and waved her hand to us, and Mr. Hawtry raised his hat
slightly. They would have passed on, but Rolf exclaimed, “Oh, do take
me up for a ride, Mr. Hawtry, I am so tired!” and Mr. Hawtry looked at
Miss Cheriton, and pulled up at once.
“Put your foot on my boot, then, and I can reach you,” he returned; and
as Hannah lifted him up, not without difficulty, he threw his arm round
him, and kept him steady. “Now, then, hold tight; we must overtake the
others,” I heard him say, and they were soon out of sight.
“It must be werry nice to be Rolf,” sighed Joyce, enviously, as Hannah
wheeled her up the dusty road.
I think we were all glad when we had reached the cool nursery, and
found a plentiful tea spread on the round table. The children were so
sleepy that we were obliged to put them to bed as soon as they had
finished their tea.
Rolf did not make his appearance until later, and then he burst into
the room with his arms full of paper and string, and we were very soon
hard at work on the window-seat, constructing the tail for his kite.
He was in high spirits, and talked volubly all the time.
“I told mother about bread and salt,” he began, “and she liked the idea
very much. She made me repeat it again to grandpapa, and he patted me
on the head, and gave me half-a-crown. When grandpapa is pleased about
anything he always gives people half-a-crown. I think he ought to give
you one, Fenny. Do you mind my calling you Fenny? it sounds so nice,
rather like funny, and you are so funny sometimes.”
“It sounds much more like Fanny,” I returned.
“Oh, do you think so? I will ask Aunt Gay what she thinks. Aunt Gay is
so fond of you, she told me so to-day, only she said it was a secret,
so you must keep it. I told Mr. Hawtry the story about the robber
servant this evening after dinner, and he said that he was a plucky
fellow, in spite of his being a robber; and so I think. Do you like Mr.
Hawtry, Fenny?”
“I do not know him, dear.”
“Oh, no, of course, you are only a nurse, and so you don’t come in
the drawing-room like other people; you would not know how to behave,
would you? Mr. Hawtry said something about you this evening. Mother was
talking to him, you know how, only I can’t tell you—bread and salt,
you know,” and here Rolf looked excessively solemn; “and Mr. Hawtry
said—no, don’t stop me, it is nothing bad, nothing like mother; oh,
dear, it will come out, I know—he only said, ‘She seems a very quiet,
well-conducted young person, and not at all above her duties,’ for you
were carrying Reggie, you know.”
“Oh, Rolf, do hold your tongue,” I exclaimed, crossly, for this was too
much for my forbearance. What business had Mrs. Markham to talk me over
with strangers? I ought to have stopped Rolf, but my curiosity was too
strong at that moment. “A quiet, well-conducted young person,” indeed.
I felt in a fever of indignation.
Rolf looked up from his kite with some surprise.
“Does talking disturb you? We are getting on beautifully. What a lovely
tail my kite will have!” Then, as though a thought struck him, “Are you
ever cross, Fenny; really cross, I mean?”
“Yes, very often, Rolf,” for being a fairly conscientious person, I
could not deny my faults of temper.
“Oh!” with a peculiar intonation, “I wonder if Aunt Gay knows that. Do
you remember any anecdotes about crossness, Fenny?”
I am afraid of what my answer might have been, for I was considerably
nettled at Rolf’s malicious tone, but happily Judson came at that
moment with a message from Mrs. Markham that even Rolf did not dare to
disobey, for he ran off at once, without bidding me good-night, and
leaving all his tackle strewn over the floor for Judson to clear.
As soon as I was left in solitude, I went to the open window. It was
clear moonlight again. There were the tree-shadows, and the long,
silvery path across the meadows; a warm radiance from the drawing-room
was flung across the terrace. The same sweet bird-like voice that I had
heard in the orchard that morning was singing an old-fashioned ballad—
“My mother bids me bind my hair.”
Someone clapped their hands and said “Bravo!” when it was finished.
“What a lovely evening! Do come into the garden, Adelaide; it is quite
warm and balmy.” And then there was a rustle and movement underneath
me, a sweep of dark drapery, followed by the whisk of a white gown, as
Gay ran down the steps, pursued by Rolf. Two gentlemen sauntered down
the terrace; one of them was Mr. Hawtry; I could hear his voice quite
plainly.
“This is a capital cigarette, squire. When a man is not much of a
smoker, he will not put up with an inferior article. I have some cigars
by me now——” The remainder of the interesting sentence was lost in the
distance.
Men are rather satirical on the subject of women’s talk. They quiz
us dreadfully, and insist that our main topic is bonnets, but I am
not sure that we could not retaliate with equal force. Bonnets can
be treated as works of art, but could anything be more trivial and
worthless than a cigar?
They were still talking about the odious things when they returned,
only I was too disgusted to listen any more. I was in a bad humour,
that was certain—one of those moods when only a real tough piece of
work can relieve one. I closed the window and drew down the blind,
and then armed myself with my pocket dictionary. I would write a long
letter to my mistress, and tell her about our afternoon on the beach,
and I would pick out the hardest and most difficult words—those that I
generally eschewed.
I heard afterwards I had written a beautiful letter, without a single
mistake, and that my mistress read it over and over again—that is, that
she considered it beautiful, because it was all about the children.
“Nonsense, Merle, it was a sweet letter, and I showed it to my husband.”
I was in a better humour when I had finished it, and called Hannah.
“Hannah, we shall go on the beach to-morrow morning, and so I shall
be able to spare you in the afternoon; I shall not take the children
farther than the garden. You can go and have tea with your sister, if
you like, and you need not hurry home. I am growing far too idle, and
I have not half enough to do,” for I wanted to check any expression of
gratitude on the girl’s part, but a tap at the door silenced us both.
It was only Miss Cheriton come to wish me good-night. She had a basket
of fruit and a dainty little bunch of roses in her hand.
“I saw the light in your window, and thought of the poor prisoner
behind it, and I thought this would cheer you up,” laying her pretty
offerings on the table. “I am going to take you all for a drive
to-morrow through Orton-on-Sea; the children will like to see the shops
and jetty. Well, good-night; I am dreadfully sleepy; to-morrow we will
have another long talk.” And then she left me alone with the roses.
(_To be continued._)
[Illustration]
FAITH AND UNFAITH.
BY SARAH DOUDNEY.
[Illustration: “SHE SAT ALONE BY THE FIRE ONE DAY.”]
“Faith and unfaith can ne’er be equal powers.”—_Tennyson._
She sat alone by the fire one day;
The winds were sobbing outside the pane,
And over the meadows and hillsides grey
The clouds hung heavy with rain.
But down in the garden-paths she knew
Last summer’s leaves were lingering yet,
Leaves that had taken the sun and the dew
Of days she would fain forget.
She sat alone, and the firelight gleamed
On a little golden ring she wore,
And her tears fell fast for the hopes that beamed
In the years that come no more.
She drew the ring from her hand, and said,
“Why should I cling to the outward sign
Of a love that now in his heart lies dead,
Though it lives and burns in mine?”
But a voice said, “Silence is not death;
Wait on in patience and bear your pain;
You may dim the gold by a single breath,
But it shines out bright again!
“Love is not love if it cannot trust,
And faith should shine like the virgin gold,
A treasure unsullied by moth or rust,
That never is bought and sold.”
THE INHERITANCE OF A GOOD NAME.
BY LOUISA MENZIES.