Chapter IX: Tea at Lower Brimley

IT was not the ordinary "afternoon tea" to which Miss Leighton was invited, but a substantial meal laid on the square mahogany table in the parlour at Lower Brimley, with a mass of primroses in the centre intermingled with sprays of beautiful fern moss, surrounded by plates of daintily cut bread-and-butter and various kinds of preserves in glass dishes, an old china bowl full of clotted cream, a plum cake, and some saffron buns—"knobbies" as they are called in Cornwall.

It was but natural that Mrs. Tiddy should put her best possessions before this relation of her little visitor's, so the silver tea-service had come out of its flannel wrappings, and Miss Leighton drank her tea from a rare old china teacup with a wreath of pink roses inside its brim—one of a set which had been treasured in Mr. Tiddy's family for three generations and was only used on great occasions—and stirred her tea with an apostle spoon, worn thin with age; whilst, much to her hostess's gratification, she evidently appreciated the efforts which were being made to entertain her.

Seated at Mrs. Tiddy's right hand at the tea-table, the old lady looked about her with a sense of unusual contentment. For once in a way, she was satisfied with the company in which she found herself. Yes, she liked this hearty, out-spoken west-country farmer and his pleasant, intelligent wife, for she was under the impression—a true one—that they would have welcomed her as cordially if she had been poor instead of rich, and she so seldom felt that about people. After tea, Peggy took possession of her, and, after visiting the yard and inspecting the poultry, she was led into the great farm kitchen, where, in one corner of the oak settle close to the fire was a flannel-lined basket containing two weakly chicks.

"Mrs. Tiddy thought this morning that they would die," Peggy said as she covered the invalids with her warm hands. "But they are getting on nicely now, and to-morrow, they'll be strong enough to run with their brothers and sisters."

Miss Leighton glanced around the kitchen with admiring, appreciative eyes, noticing the shining tins on the mantel-piece, the big copper warming-pan and the tall, brass-faced clock against the wall, and the linen bags hanging from the beams which spanned the ceiling, containing home-cured hams and sides of bacon. And then, after a visit to the dairy, she returned with Peggy to the parlour, where the tea-things had disappeared from the table, and the easiest chair in the room was drawn near the window for the guest.

"What a peaceful scene it is!" Miss Leighton exclaimed, as her eyes rested on the village below and the distant sea. "I suppose, Mrs. Tiddy, you have become greatly attached to this charming spot?"

"Yes," Mrs. Tiddy answered. "I love Lower Brimley as I imagine only a woman who has been homeless and dependent can love her home. There was nowhere in the world where I could feel I had a right to be, till I married, for I was left an orphan at an early age and brought up by relations who regarded me in the light of an incubus. The bread of charity is very bitter, Miss Leighton—how bitter, it is impossible for those who have never tasted it to guess. I finished my education in a school as a pupil teacher, so I can truthfully say, that after I was seventeen, I maintained myself. You know I was a governess for several years, but I prefer being a farmer's wife," she concluded with a happy laugh.

"Your lines have fallen in pleasant places," Miss Leighton remarked, with a smile which was very gracious.

And Mrs. Tiddy agreed.

Then Peggy was asked to give them some music, and she went to the piano willingly. Miss Leighton was astonished to hear the child could play so well, and expressed herself delighted, remarking that she had evidently been most carefully taught.

"Soon I am going to learn the organ," Peggy informed the old lady, twisting round on the piano-stool, "and then, perhaps, when I am quite grown up I shall be able to earn my own living. How splendid that will be! I think I would rather be a musician than anything else, because it makes people happy to hear music. Oh! here's Mr. Tiddy!" she cried, catching the sound of footsteps in the hall; and a minute later the farmer entered the room.

"You've been having some music?" he said, glancing at Peggy on the piano-stool. "Well, now, won't you sing something, my dear? She has a voice as sweet as a lark's," he continued, turning to the visitor. "I am sure you would like to hear her sing, wouldn't you?"

"Indeed I should," Miss Leighton replied.

"I don't know any songs," Peggy said doubtfully; "only a few hymns, and little scraps from anthems which I've heard at church."

"Sing that hymn about 'Light at evening time,' my dear," requested Mr. Tiddy. "I dearly like to hear you sing that."

Peggy complied immediately, and when her sweet voice ceased there was dead silence for a minute or so. Surprised, the little girl turned her sightless eyes in the direction of Miss Leighton, wondering why she did not at least say, "Thank you."

"Don't you like it?" she asked. "It's my favourite hymn, and when I was a very little girl mother taught me to say the first verse as a prayer. I say it every night now, and I expect I always shall. I suppose I like it so much because I'm blind. I don't know what light is, but I know it's very beautiful and wonderful, because Jesus is called 'The Light of the World,' and people seem to think it's so dreadful to be without it."

"The light our Saviour brought into the world is given to the blind as freely as to others," Mrs. Tiddy reminded her gently. "Its home is in the heart, making peace and happiness and joy." She glanced at Miss Leighton as she spoke and was surprised at the expression of her face. The old lady was regarding the child with yearning eyes, and her whole countenance—generally so repellent in its pride—was softened by an emotion which rendered her incapable of speech.

At that moment Peggy started to her feet, declaring she heard Wolf outside the window—he was in search of her—and hastened out of the room. A few minutes later, she and her faithful canine friend ran down the garden path side by side, the dog barking joyously at having lured her from the house.

"How full of life and high spirits she is!" remarked Mr. Tiddy, as he moved to the window to watch the pair. "She is looking capital, isn't she? I declare her cheeks have become quite round and rosy, and she was such a pale little soul not much more than a month ago."

"It is terrible that she should be blind!" Miss Leighton exclaimed, a sort of restrained vehemence in her tone as she found her voice once more. "Can nothing really be done for her? Has she had good advice?"

"The best in London, I believe," Mrs. Tiddy answered with a sigh.

"Then money would be no good—" The old lady paused as both her companions shook their heads. "Because if it was a question of money I would gladly pay any amount for the child's sake," she proceeded eagerly. "I—I have taken a great fancy to her. I do not know when I was so much attracted by a child before. I would give a great deal if she could be made to see."

"Hers is not a case money can touch," Mr. Tiddy responded gravely, "I have been assured of that by her parents. As long as her life lasts, the little maid will be blind, and she knows it, but she's contented to wait. Her eyes will see the King in His beauty by-and-by, and meanwhile His love is lightening her darkness and cheering her way. Did you like that hymn she sang?"

"Yes," Miss Leighton assented, "but it made me sad. To me, blindness seems the heaviest affliction that can fall upon any one."

She glanced out of the window, her expression one of mingled affection and pity as her gaze fell upon the little girl who was now leaning over the garden gate in the attitude of listening.

"Ah, here comes Barnes to escort me home!" she exclaimed. "I have to thank you for a very pleasant time," she continued earnestly, looking from one of her companions to the other. "I am afraid I shall have no opportunity of returning your hospitality now, for I am leaving Higher Brimley at the end of the week; but surely, Mr. Tiddy, you sometimes bring your wife to town?"

"She has not been back to London since I married her," Mr. Tiddy replied smilingly, "and she says she has no desire to go. But I mean for us both to take a holiday in the autumn—after the corn harvest—and then—"

"And then you will come to London," Miss Leighton interposed quickly, "and do come and stay with me. Don't say 'No,' but think it over. It would give me so much pleasure to have you for my guests, and you should do as you pleased in every way. At any rate, promise you will not visit London without seeing me."

"I readily promise that," Mrs. Tiddy answered, secretly much surprised at the invitation she and her husband had received. "You are very kind—so many thanks. Won't you stay a little longer? Barnes can wait for you."

"I think I must go, for I would rather return before dark, and the evening is drawing in. There is a mist rising from the sea; I dare say it is 'only for heat and pilchards' as you Cornish folk say, but I am liable to bronchitis and I fear to be out in a fog."

Mr. and Mrs. Tiddy escorted their visitor to the garden gate, where Barnes was waiting for her, in conversation with Peggy; and five minutes later, mistress and maid were climbing the hill towards Higher Brimley.

"I shall leave here at the end of the week," Miss Leighton abruptly remarked as they neared their destination.

"Yes, ma'am," replied Barnes, in her usual quiet tone.

"It is my intention to return to town, but I think I shall break our journey at Plymouth," Miss Leighton announced. "I may probably stay there for a day or so."

"Yes, ma'am," Barnes replied again. Not a muscle of her face moved, nor was there any sign to show the delight she experienced as her mistress made known her plans, though her heart was palpitating with joy at the thought that she might soon have an opportunity of seeing her mother and brother.

Miss Leighton was disappointed. She had planned to stop at Plymouth solely on her maid's account; but of course, she reflected, Barnes could not know that.

"By the way, you have relatives living near Plymouth, have you not?" she asked, after a brief hesitation.

"Yes, ma'am—my mother and my brother." Barnes regarded her mistress dubiously, then added: "I shall be glad to see them, if you will allow me a day to myself, for my mother is very old, and my brother is sorely afflicted—he has no mind, or none to speak of. It will be a great pleasure to me to go and see them."

"How is it you never mentioned them to me before?" Miss Leighton demanded sharply. "You are deeply attached to them, are you not?"

"Yes," Barnes admitted, "I am." But she did not explain why their names had never passed her lips, and her mistress did not ask her again.