Chapter XXI: At Teymouth

IT was a cloudless August day, oppressively hot in the sunshine but pleasant in the shade, and there was shade on the beach at Teymouth beneath the shelter of the high, red cliffs where a happy party, consisting of Mrs. Wyndham and her five children, was assembled.

The plan which Ann Reed had suggested, that the Wyndhams might take lodgings at Teymouth for their summer holiday, had actually been carried out, and now they were in residence at a farm house situated about half a mile from the village, and thoroughly enjoying the novel experience of life in the country.

This afternoon the young folks had made a huge fire of drift wood, over which they were trying to boil a kettle of water preparatory to making tea, whilst a table-cloth—kept in place by a big stone at each corner—had been spread on the sand and displayed a tempting repast of bread and butter, cake, and a big tin of clotted cream.

"I hope they'll come soon," said Violet, who was feeding the fire with sticks, "for the kettle is beginning to sing; but they are not in sight yet, and old Mrs. Reed does walk so slowly."

"She'll get along quicker with father to lend her an arm," observed Ruth; "as soon as the kettle boils I think we had better make the tea."

They were waiting for Ann and her grandmother, and for Mr. Wyndham who had gone to offer the old lady his assistance down the somewhat uneven path which led to the beach. The Wyndhams had been at Teymouth a fortnight, during which time they had seen Ann and her grandmother nearly every day. Mr. and Mrs. Wyndham seemed to have cast off all their cares and to be enjoying their holiday as much as their children; they felt they might do so with easy minds.

"Here they come at last!" cried Madge, presently. "Does the kettle boil?"

"Yes," Violet answered. "Ruthie, make the tea. Oh, dear me, I do hope the water is not smoky!"

Ruth made the tea, and a few minutes later old Mrs. Reed, leaning on Mr. Wyndham's arm, with Ann on her other side, joined the party, and was made very comfortable in a deck chair, which had been brought down to the beach on purpose for her and placed in a sheltered spot. Though Ann's grandmother was eighty years of age she did not look so old, for her face was singularly unwrinkled and her brow smooth, whilst her intellect was as bright as it had ever been, and her sight and hearing were good. She was a little stiff and slow in her movements, as the result of rheumatism, from which she occasionally suffered, but she was a wonderful woman for her years. There was a strong likeness between her and her son, and consequently between her and Ann. All three had the same fine grey eyes, and the same open, kindly expression of countenance.

"You ought not to make so much of me," the old lady said, in a voice which had more than a touch of west-country dialect in its pleasant tones, "for think how I shall miss your attentions by-and-by!"

"We won't think of 'by-and-by,'" replied Mrs. Wyndham; "let us live in the present and enjoy these happy hours as much as we can. Ruth, will you pour out the tea, my dear? Boys, make yourselves useful and hand around the plates. We must make tables of our laps."

The meal commenced right merrily. Everyone was in good spirits, and the tea, though it proved a trifle smoky, was not enough so to be spoilt, and was drunk and enjoyed; in fact Billy went so far as to declare that he preferred the flavour of smoky tea. Full justice was done to the eatables, too, and the plates of bread and butter and cake were soon emptied, whilst, at the completion of the repast, only about a teaspoonful of cream remained at the bottom of the tin, which had been full to the brim.

"I hope everyone has had enough," said Mrs. Wyndham; then, as they all declared they had made capital teas, she indicated the empty plates and quoted: "Enough is as good as a feast."

"I call it a feast when one has cream," remarked Madge; at which they all laughed, and Mrs. Reed promised to send her some cream on her birthday if she would tell her the date, which she was only too pleased to do.

As soon as tea was over the boys and their father wandered off around the cliffs, whilst Mrs. Wyndham and the girls, having packed the tea things into baskets, settled themselves to enjoy a chat with Mrs. Reed. The latter was a most entertaining companion; for she owned a wonderful memory which went back more than seventy years: She talked to them now of her youth, of the time when she had been her granddaughter's age.

"I was in my first situation, then," she said; "you must understand that my father was a hard-working man who farmed a few acres, and I was the eldest of a long family—we all had to turn out and earn our own livings as soon as we were old enough."

"Did you like being a servant?" asked Madge curiously.

"Not at first, my dear," Mrs. Reed admitted, with a bright smile at her little questioner; "I had to work very hard, and I was at the age when young girls naturally like amusements; but, by-and-by, as I tried to do my duty, I grew to like it better. 'Tis the working bee that gets the best sweets from life, after all."

"Do you really think that?" Ruth inquired; then, as Mrs. Reed emphatically assented, she begged her to tell them some more about her youthful days.

The old lady willingly complied, and, from speaking of her girlhood, she went on to her married life and the birth of her son. She told them how the boy had always evinced an eagerness for knowledge, and how she and his father had worked and saved so that he might have the advantages of a good education and a fair start in life.

"My husband was very proud of our boy, but I don't think he ever guessed he would do as well as he has," she said simply; "my son never caused me a moment's anxiety in my life," she added with a tender smile.

"He always loved you too well to do that, Granny," said Ann, her open face glowing with gratification as she listened to her father's praise.

It was very pleasant there in the shelter of the cliffs. Presently a fleet of fishing boats, with unfurled to catch the evening breeze, appeared in sight, going up the channel, the light from the setting sun shining full upon them.

"How pretty they look!" cried Ann; "I wish they would come nearer so that we could have a better view of them."

"They will not do that," said her grandmother; "they are Brixham trawlers, and will keep well out at sea."

The conversation then turned upon fishing and boating, and, subsequently, to the expected visit of Dr. and Mrs. Reed, which had been arranged for the early part of September. Dr. Reed meant to take a fortnight's holiday and intended to leave his practice to the care of his partner, Mr. Luscombe, meanwhile.

By-and-by Mr. Wyndham and the boys returned; and then, as the sun had nearly set, a general move was made, and the party left the beach. The Wyndhams' way led past Mrs. Reed's cottage, at the gate of which goodbyes were exchanged and Ann arranged to meet her friends on the following morning.

Mrs. Reed, who was considerably tired, went straight indoors, but Ann lingered to watch the Wyndhams out of sight, and when she entered the cottage she found her grandmother had gone upstairs to remove her bonnet and cloak. The girl hung her hat on a peg in the passage, and turned into the comfortable little parlour, where, on the table in the centre of the room, she immediately caught sight of a letter addressed to herself; her look was one of surprise as she took it up, for, though the postmark was that of her native town, the handwriting on the envelope was unknown to her.

"Whom can it be from?" she murmured, as she went to the window in order to see better, for the daylight had almost gone. "Why, it's from Dr. Elizabeth!" she exclaimed, as she opened the letter and glanced at the signature, "what can she have to say to me?" And she commenced to read:—

"MY DEAR ANN,"

"I am writing to tell you that poor Malvina Medland died this morning. She was so much worse all last week and suffered so greatly that no one could wish her life to be prolonged. I am thankful to say, however, that she was spared pain at the end, and passed away as quietly as if she had been falling asleep. The night before last I was with her for some time, and she asked me to remind you of a promise you once made her, she did not explain what it was; she said, 'Please tell Miss Ann I rely upon her to keep her promise,' so I remind you now. No doubt you will understand what the poor girl meant. You will be glad to hear that both Mrs. Medland and Lottie were with Malvina at the time of her death; Mrs. Medland appears broken-hearted, for Malvina was her favourite child."

The letter dropped from Ann's hand, and she stood gazing with unseeing eyes out of the window. Malvina was dead. The brave, patient life was at an end. Never again, with aching back and weary arms, would she "mind babies" or do plain needlework or crochet; she was beyond all that in the presence of the Great Physician. Ann knew she had no need to be sorry for Malvina now, but the tears welled up in her eyes and ran down her cheeks as she recalled her last interview with the sick girl, and her tender heart was full of sympathy for the mother and sister in their desolation.

"I am glad I made Malvina that promise," she thought, "I believe it made her very happy; but I don't know how I am going to keep it— perhaps God will show me when I get home."

She picked up Dr. Elizabeth's letter and finished reading it. By that time her grandmother had come downstairs and she had to account for her tears; and they talked of Malvina—whom old Mrs. Reed knew well by repute—till they were interrupted by the servant who brought in the lamp and the supper things.

The next morning when Ann, according to the arrangement she had made, joined the three Wyndham girls in a walk through some beautiful woods which adjoined Teymouth, Violet noticed at once that she was unusually subdued in her manner, and asked if anything was amiss. In a voice which faltered, in spite of the effort she made to keep it steady, Ann told her news.

"Malvina dead!" gasped Violet, with a rush of tears to her brown eyes; "oh, Ann! When did you hear that?" She looked, as she felt, much shocked.

"Last night, in a letter from Dr. Elizabeth, which arrived for me while we were on the beach," Ann rejoined; "she did not suffer at the last, so Dr. Elizabeth says, I felt so relieved to hear that. Do you remember, Violet, how she said that day when we went to say good-bye to her at the hospital 'He will be with me all the way?'"

Violet assented with a nod, she could not trust her voice to speak, and Madge asked:—

"What did she mean, Ann?"

"That Jesus would be with her. I am sure she was thinking of that verse in the twenty-third psalm, 'Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death I will fear no evil: for Thou art with me; Thy rod and Thy staff they comfort me.'"

"Poor girl," murmured Ruth, who, like Madge, had heard all about Malvina from Violet; "did she die in the hospital?" she inquired.

"Yes," assented Ann, "but her mother and sister were with her when she died. Oh, I do feel so sorry for them!"

"So do I," said Ruth, "more especially for the sister. It must be so dreadful to know you have given trouble to one you love, and that you will never be able to make amends."

"The sister is a very naughty girl, isn't she, Ann?" questioned Madge.

"Yes, she is," Ann was obliged to admit. "I suppose Violet has been telling you about her?"

"Yes," Madge nodded; "and Violet says you promised to be a friend to her if Malvina died."

"So I did; and I mean, if possible, to keep my word."

"I suppose you have a great many friends," remarked Madge seriously, "you would, as your father is so well known and—"

"Madge!" interrupted Ruth, in an admonishing tone, fearful of what her young sister was about to say.

"I haven't said anything out of the way, have I?" inquired Madge, innocently.

"No, no," Ann assured her. "Father is well known, of course, because he has lived many years in Barford; we have a lot of friends there. I suppose you know a good many people at Streatham, don't you?"

"No," rejoined Madge; "we've always been too poor to know people, but it will be different now, I hope. There are some people I do not wish to know," she continued, glancing at Violet, who suddenly grew very red, "Agnes Hosking, for instance—"

"Oh, we will not talk of her!" broke in Ruth; "of course we should never be on terms of friendship with a girl who has treated Violet badly. Ann, I wonder if that tortoise-shell purse will ever be found; do you think it is at all likely it will?"

This was the first occasion on which Ruth had mentioned the matter of the loss of Agnes' purse to Ann. Ann shook her head dubiously in answer to Ruth's question; she was beginning to give up hope that the purse would ever be recovered now.

"It is very hard for Violet," Ruth whispered, as she and Ann fell behind the other two in the narrow woodland path through which they were walking, "but she acted most foolishly and wrongly. She has told me everything. Her behaviour must have surprised and shocked you, yet you tried to protect her and stood her friend." There was deep gratitude in Ruth's tone.

"Why, of course I did," responded Ann, "I am sure you would have done the same."

"Yes, but she is my sister."

"And she is my friend."

Ruth smiled. She was right glad that Violet had such a friend as this girl to stand by her. Once she had feared that Ann might try to supplant her in Violet's affections; but then she had not known Ann, whom to know was to trust.