Chapter IX: A Morning Walk

It was April, and the boys of the Beaworthy Grammar School were having a fortnight's vacation, only a few days of which had passed as yet, so that it greatly astonished Polly and Roger Trent to be informed by their cousin, whom they met in the town one morning, that he wished the holidays were over.

"Are you so fond of work, then?" Polly questioned, in her surprise.

"No, certainly not," he answered, regarding her sharply to see if she was laughing at him, "but I've nothing to do. Mother has several visitors staying in the house, all grown-up people, and they're no fun whatever, and I've no one to talk to or play with. Where are you two off?" he asked, glancing at the big basket the little girl was carrying.

"We are going gathering primroses," Roger explained. "Would you—" He hesitated, looking inquiringly at his sister; then, as she nodded, he continued: "Would you like to go with us?"

"I don't mind if I do," Edgar responded condescendingly.

"You needn't if you don't care about it," Polly said quickly, "we can do quite well without you."

"Oh, I want to go with you," Edgar assured her; "I should like the walk, but I don't care about the primroses. I have heaps of flowers at home."

"I suppose you have," said Polly with a faint sigh, "but we have none, you know. The gardens at the Rookery must be looking lovely now with all the spring flowers in bloom; I remember last year you had a lot of daffodils—beauties!"

"So we have now; you ought to come and see them, Polly." There was a wistful expression in the little girl's countenance which somewhat touched her cousin, and he remembered what a long time had passed since she had paid a visit to his home. "Why don't you come?" he continued. "Mother would be very glad to see you, you know."

"Would she? I don't know so much about that," Polly responded bluntly, with a short laugh; "if Aunt Janie wanted to see me she'd invite me to the Rookery, I shouldn't think of going there otherwise."

There was an awkward pause in the conversation after this. The children were, by now, nearing the outskirts of the town, and coming to the clay works, which formed the chief industry of the neighbourhood. The high road adjoining the works had a row of labourers' cottages on either side, with small gardens in front.

"That's where our old servant, Sarah Glubb, lives," said Roger, indicating one of these dwellings; "and, look! There's Sarah herself in the doorway."

"Oh, I must speak to her for a minute!" cried Polly. "I know it was visiting-day at the hospital yesterday, so for certain she saw her husband then; I want to ask her how he is."

Sarah—a neat, pleasant-faced woman—stood with her baby in her arms. She smiled at the children as they approached, and they stood talking to her a short while—at least, Polly and Roger talked, whilst Edgar listened. As Polly had imagined, Sarah had been to see her husband on the preceding day, and had been cheered to find him much better.

"The nurse told me the doctor considers Caleb will be able to come home in about another fortnight," she said happily; "but I am afraid it will be some weeks longer before he will be strong enough to work in the clay pits," she added, her countenance clouding slightly.

"Does your good fairy still remember you, Sarah?" Polly questioned anxiously.

"Yes, miss," Sarah answered, a radiant smile driving the gloom from her face, "so perhaps she—or maybe it's he—will go on helping me till my man's able to work for me and the little ones again. I only wish I knew who it is that is being such a friend to me, that I do. God bless whoever it is, I say—aye, and He will."

"What did you mean about a good fairy, Polly?" questioned Edgar as soon as he and his cousins were out of Sarah's hearing. "There are no fairies nowadays."

"There's one who sends a present to Sarah every week," Polly responded gravely. "Isn't there, Roger?"

Roger nodded, and meeting each other's eyes the sister and brother laughed. Edgar looked vexed, for he had an idea his companions were poking fun at him, and he stood much on his dignity. However, Roger promptly explained that Polly had referred to an unknown person who had befriended Sarah by sending her a pound every week since her husband's accident. Edgar was much interested, and expressed great astonishment that the generous donor should desire to remain unknown, for, as he said, most people who gave anything away liked to be thanked.

They were leaving the clay works—deep pits where scores of men were at work digging clay or pumping up water—behind them, and ten minutes more walking brought them to the woods, which were carpeted with moss and primroses on this beautiful spring day. Polly's basket was soon filled with the pale, delicately-scented flowers; and then the three young people sat down to rest at the foot of a beech tree, and the little girl drew a good-sized package from a capacious pocket in her skirt, and proceeded to open it with an air of triumph.

"There, boys!" she exclaimed, as she revealed a large lump of home-made cake. "You didn't know I'd brought lunch with me, but aren't you glad? I'd have cut a bigger bit if I'd known Edgar was going to be with us. Where's your knife, Roger? Divide the cake into three slices, please."

"I'm jolly hungry," Roger announced, as he produced his pocket-knife and proceeded to do his sister's bidding. "I'm just ready for a snack."

"And yet you said you wouldn't want lunch when mother advised you to take some," Polly reminded him. "I knew better than that, for being out-of-doors always makes one very hungry. Come, Edgar, take your share!"

Accustomed though he was to far daintier fare, Edgar enjoyed his slice of cake, which proved most satisfying. It was very comfortable under the beech tree, the brown, swelling buds of which were bursting into leaf, and the young people spent a sociable half-hour, watching the squirrels in the boughs overhead, and talking confidentially. They discussed their elders, as children are so fond of doing, and Edgar informed his cousins how surprised his parents were that Cousin Becky was to make her home with them in Princess Street.

"Why are they so surprised?" asked Polly, greatly desirous to ascertain the reason.

"Because Cousin Becky is so poor. Mother said she could understand it better if she was rich and you could make something out of her, but what she is going to pay is so little. I think myself that Cousin Becky is very nice, and I should not mind having her to live with us at the Rookery. It is a great pity she has not more money. Father says you can do nothing without money."

This teaching was new to Polly and Roger, who had been taught a far different creed.

"I suppose you think your father knows everything," the former said, a trifle irascibly, "but I daresay other people are just as clever as he is. It must be very, very nice to have money," she proceeded, "but mother says there are greater blessings than riches, and if we haven't money to give away we can give what we have—our time, or kind words, or sympathy, that all counts with God. It's easy to give money if you've got it. I daresay Uncle John gives away a good bit, doesn't he?"

"I don't know, I'm sure," Edgar answered. "I never heard him say. I daresay he does, for he has plenty of money, you know."

"Yes, I know," returned Polly, nodding her head sagely, "and so've you, haven't you? You get a lot of pocket-money, don't you?"

"A shilling a week from father, besides what mother gives me off and on."

"So much as that? Do you spend it all on yourself? Oh!" she cried as her cousin nodded. "Fancy that! We get twopence, and Roger had only a penny a week before he went to school."

"Why don't you ask your father for more?" questioned Edgar thoughtlessly.

"Because he can't afford to give us more; he would if he could." Polly rose, and picked up her basket of primroses as she spoke. "I think it's time we started for home," she said, "for mother told us we were to be back by one o'clock."

Accordingly the children left the wood and retraced their footsteps along the high road, Polly carrying her basket very carefully, and looking admiringly at her flowers every now and then. Edgar gave his cousins a description of the handsomely illustrated copy of 'The Pilgrim's Progress' which his mother had procured for him; he seemed exceedingly pleased with it, and promised to show it to his companions one day.

They had nearly reached the town when they were overtaken by Mr. Marsh, who was being driven by a groom in a dog-cart. He had been to the clay works and was now on his way home.

"Well, young folks," he said good-humouredly as the groom, obeying his master's order, brought the dog-cart to a standstill, "have you been for a ramble in the country? All well at home, Polly? Yes. That's right. You're looking blooming yourself, child, with those bright eyes and those rosy cheeks. Edgar, you'd better jump up behind and return with me. Well, Roger, how are you?" he asked. His son climbed into the back seat of the vehicle as he spoke.

"Very well, thank you, Uncle John," Roger answered, lifting his frank eyes to meet his uncle's.

"You and your sister should come to the Rookery sometimes during the holidays," Mr. Marsh said kindly; "but, mind, I'll have no smoking. Remember that."

"I never do smoke, Uncle John," Roger returned earnestly.

"Tut, tut, that's not true. Hasn't Edgar told you that I found out what you and he had been doing the last time you were at the Rookery? I ought to have told your father, perhaps. I am sure he would not like you to smoke. You hope to grow into a fine, strong man, I suppose? You'll never be one if you smoke cigarettes at your age. You mark my words. Good-bye."

The dog-cart passed on, leaving Polly and Roger staring after it, the former filled with amazement, the latter crimson with indignation. Edgar waved his hand to them, but they did not respond to his salutation.

"What did Uncle John mean?" Polly demanded of her brother. "Have you really been smoking?"

"No, no! How can you think it for a minute!" was the reproachful response.

"But Uncle John evidently believes you have. He thought, too, that you told him a story."

"I saw he did." Roger looked utterly miserable. "I can't understand it," he said. "I have never smoked, indeed I haven't. You know I promised father I wouldn't."

"Uncle John spoke of the last time you were at the Rookery. Neither he nor Aunt Janie were at home then, were they?"

"No; Edgar and I spent the afternoon by ourselves. Oh, don't ask me any more about it," he proceeded imploringly as he saw another question trembling on his sister's lips. "Uncle John has made a mistake, but—" passionately—"he had no right to speak to me as he did."

"He did not speak unkindly, only as though he thought you had told him a story. No, you are not a story-teller, I know that well enough."

"Don't tell them at home what he said, Polly; mother and father would be so put out—promise you won't."

Polly hesitated; but her brother appeared so distressed that she at length, very reluctantly, gave the desired promise, feeling puzzled and uneasy. Why, since Roger had been wrongfully accused, did he not want the matter cleared up? It did not seem right to her that their uncle should be allowed to believe what was not true; and her heart was hot with indignation against him for holding such a bad opinion of her brother. Never for a moment did she doubt Roger's word herself. Long she puzzled over the matter, but she asked no more questions, and the remainder of the walk home passed in silence.

"I've enjoyed the morning, haven't you?" Roger said, as they turned the corner into Princess Street.

"Oh yes," the little girl assented, "and I was doubtful if we should when we met Edgar and he said he'd go with us; but I think he really has improved, he was very nice on the whole to-day. I wish," she added with a faint sigh, "oh, I do wish we had not seen Uncle John!"