Chapter XV: The Dingle

IT was a sweet wild place, this Dingle, coming after a long reach of flat and lonely moor. There was a deep dip, and a grassy space below, with one tiny cottage built beside a running stream, while all around the rocky sides rose steeply, clothed with brushwood and small trees, amongst which the brilliant spring green of the larches was the most conspicuous. And from this little hollow or basin, the pathway—about as wide and rough as a mountain sleigh-path, and much overgrown with grass—leading up alongside of the sparkling stream, rose winding in a narrow gorge, with rocks and trees still closing in on either side. Several threatened endings proved only to be fresh turnings of the path, until at length the summit was attained of a certain round green hill, with a good view of the surrounding country, and a number of larches and silver beeches growing down its sides.

A month or two later, the pretty spot would be almost overrun by excursionists, but it was quiet now, with the exception of Madge Hardwicke's party, who made noise enough for fifty ordinary pleasure-seekers. Madge loved nothing better than to see "her children," as she called them, enjoying themselves. They had all arrived at the Dingle by three o'clock, and many games in the "green basin" followed.

Mrs. Blayney and her son, and Nat Tyrrell and his wife, were by no means useless additions to the party. Madge alone would have been hardly equal to the task of keeping all those busy little feet out of perilous spots, but for their aid. As it was, they had enough to do, all five of them, during the first hour and a half. It was somewhere about the close of that time that a little basket-carriage was seen approaching, drawn by a pretty grey pony, and a shout was immediately raised:—

"I say,—if it ain't the Parson a-driving up here!"

No unwelcome arrival was that little chaise, though nobody yet knew what lay hidden under the seats. The children came crowding around, to receive kind words and smiles, alike from Mr. Prior, and from the pale lady beside him, who never left her Rectory home save in a carriage, but was no stranger to them all nevertheless. As for the small boy, Georgie, with his knickerbockers, and straw hat, and floating blue ribbons, he was out on the ground in a moment, at the imminent risk of his legs, ready for any amount of play.

"So you are all enjoying yourselves here, Madge," said Mr. Prior, as she stood, smiling, near at hand.

"Well, sir, the children seem to find a deal of pleasure in it," said Madge.

"Don't think we are going to intrude, Madge," said Miss Prior, the clergyman's sister. "We can drive up the Dingle, and leave you all to play, you know. Only we wanted to bring just a little contribution to your feast, as you—naughty woman that you are—didn't take the trouble to invite us."

"You're welcome enough, ma'am, if I'd thought you cared to come," said Madge placidly. "Miss Mona has nigh as much to do with the matter as I."

But her face lighted up a good deal at the sight of the hamper, and the children's consequent delight. And when it was opened, and the contents began to appear, the little ones did not seem to know how to smile broadly enough for such a grand occasion. Miss Prior was satisfied so far, and began now to talk of driving on, but Madge interposed. Wouldn't they stay, and help to eat up the feast?

"Spoil the fun?"

Madge laughed her low quiet laugh at the idea. And Nannie, creeping up, looked with a pair of pleading eyes, which added weight to the words of Madge.

"You two together are irresistible," Miss Prior said. "I am vanquished at all events. What will the rest of you do?"

"I never intended to do anything but stay, all along," said Mr. Prior composedly, and Madge's gray eyes flashed a look of merry appreciation. No arm-chair being at hand, Mrs. Prior had to keep her seat in the low basket-chaise, but the pony was taken out and tied to a tree, and half the children gathered round to feed him with handfuls of grass, while the other half watched the unlading of the hamper with eager eyes.

It was no meagre fare that Mr. and Miss Prior had brought for the occasion. Madge's buns found themselves in a very small minority, compared with the varieties of provisions now produced. A white cloth had not been forgotten, and amid much fun and laughter, the table—otherwise the ground—was laid; hot water was procured from the cottage; and tea was at length ready.

Then they all sat round in a circle,—Mr. Prior being honoured with a seat upon a stump, and having a bodyguard of small children at his end of the cloth. Nannie crept to his side, and sat there, almost too happy to eat. Poor little child! This day was one of radiant experience in her cloudy life. She had not known many such.

It was a mixed sort of company gathered there to dinner, or tea, or whatever they chose to term that five o'clock out-of-door feast on the grass. The hamper-full would almost have served to supply a meal of either description. Mixed as the company might be, however—including the Priors and Mona, the children and Madge, a sailor and his mother, a carpenter and his wife,—it was a very merry and a very happy party. Had Mr. Chetwynd been one of the number, he would probably have felt a good deal out of his element, from the fact that he would have been troubled with a certain amount of anxiety as to his own dignity.

Mr. Prior, whose pleasant ease of manner, and entire self-forgetfulness, were equally to be seen on all occasions, whether his companions might chance to be earls and baronets, or masons and plumbers, suffered from no such uneasiness. He kept up a cheery flow of conversation, just suited to those present—bright, cheerful, kindly, with many an illustration for the men, and many a story for the little ones, not lacking a vein of quaint humour, and yet having an under-current of serious purpose, which now and then rose to the surface, like a golden thread in a many-coloured pattern.

The feast over—and very thoroughly it was over, little but crumbs remaining—there was some talk of the chaise and its inmates driving on. Miss Prior protested. She at least must have one game with the children first. Wouldn't Mona join? Mona did not object, but for all Miss Prior's twenty years' seniority, Mona seemed of the two to have the less appreciation of the fun. She very soon found her help was not really needed, and slipped away.

"Mona, you are not well to-day," said Mrs. Prior, as she came up.

Mona flushed suddenly. "I have rather a headache, Mrs. Prior; I dare say it will go off soon."

"Don't tire yourself, dear. My sister likes nothing better than a game with the little ones. Would you not rather go home at once?"

"O no, thank you! We are to walk up the Dingle," said Mona, unwilling to check the general enjoyment, though she really did feel far from well. "They say the view from the top is lovely."

"Yes; and I am told that the path is quite fit for our little chaise, so we will all go up together," said Mr. Prior, making his appearance at this juncture. "Here come Tyrrell and Blayney to harness in the pony."

"I am glad Mrs. Prior will be able to come too," Mona remarked.