Chapter V: An Afternoon's Experiences

HALDON village consisted of about a score of thatched cottages, dotted around a large square of waste ground always spoken of as Haldon Green. At one side of the Green was the parish church. Close by, between the churchyard and the vicarage, was the schoolroom, a modern red brick building where the entertainment for the villagers was to be held on Christmas Eve.

As Mrs. Coker's well-known pony-carriage, drawn by the no less well-known brown pony, Bess, drew up before the post office, which was also the one shop of the place where groceries and household commodities could be obtained, heads appeared at the cottage windows; and a group of children, who had been playing a game of "last-touch" on the Green, drew near in anticipation of being spoken to by the occupants of the carriage—Mrs. Coker and Miss Lilian.

"Will one of you hold Bess, please?" Mrs. Coker asked with a smile. And immediately a roguish-looking urchin stepped forward and took up his post at the pony's head.

Mrs. Coker and Lilian alighted. The former had a word for each of the children; and the latter, though she only smiled upon them, left behind her a pleasant impression of sweetness and goodwill as she followed her mother into the post office.

"My! Don't I wish I was Miss Lilian to have such grand clothes to wear!" exclaimed one little maiden, who had been struck with admiration by Lilian's fur-trimmed jacket and cap to match.

"Oh, you forget!" cried another. "For my part, I'd rather be without the grand clothes, and be able to see. She has been blind all her life, as we all know, and always will be—my mother does charing at the Hall, and the servants there told her so."

A hush fell upon the little group, and no one spoke further of envying the blind child. And when she appeared again, they regarded her with a kind of reverence, wondering how, when God had laid such a heavy affliction upon her, she could appear so bright and happy.

The children watched with the greatest interest as Mrs. Coker and her little daughter went from cottage to cottage, the latter running to and from the pony-carriage with the various parcels she herself had helped to pack.

In the last cottage they visited was a very old woman, who sat by the fireside, bent nearly double with rheumatism. Her name was Nannie Davey. She lived by herself, and had the unenviable reputation of being the worst-tempered person in the parish. For her there was a small Christmas pudding, and some warm garments which Mrs. Coker had made.

"Are you coming to the entertainment in the schoolroom on Christmas Eve, Nannie?" inquired Mrs. Coker, after Nannie had thanked her with real gratitude for her kindness.

"I'm too old, ma'am," Nannie responded, as she felt the comfortable new clothing she held on her lap. "A poor, helpless body like me is best at home."

"Oh, no!" cried Lilian eagerly. "You must come, Nannie, if you possibly can, indeed you must! It will quite spoil my pleasure to know that you are spending Christmas Eve alone!"

"Oh, my pretty dear, it's good of you to care about me," said the old woman, "but—"

"I want you to be happy," Lilian interposed, "especially at Christmas time! Oh, I hope you'll make up your mind to come!"

"I'll come missie," Nannie replied—"that is, if I'm well enough; but I never can tell one day how I may be the next."

The old woman hobbled out to the door of her cottage after her visitors, and saw them take their seats in the pony-carriage and drive off. Lilian smiled and waved her hand to the children, who watched their departure, and called out to them in her bright clear voice:

"Good-bye! Mind you're all at the schoolroom in good time for tea on Christmas Eve! Don't forget!"

"No fear of that," remarked the little girl whose mother did charing at the Hall. "As though we should be likely to forget, indeed!"

Then her eyes fell upon Nannie Davey standing in the doorway of her cottage, with a gentler expression upon her face than it usually wore, and she said to her: "Miss Lilian doesn't look blind, does she? And yet they say she will never see as long as she lives!"

"Poor dear," murmured the old woman; "but there, she doesn't need pity—she's one of the happiest children I ever knew, and so thoughtful for other folks, too!"

Meanwhile Mrs. Coker and Lilian were homeward bound, and Bess, being fully conscious of the fact, trotted over the ground as fast as she could go—not so fast as she would have liked, perhaps, for the roads were slippery with frost, and the driver had to keep a tight hand on the reins, especially going downhill.

"Shall we stop and see Mrs. Wills?" inquired the little girl, as they approached Westhill.

"No, not this afternoon, my dear. I should like to be home before dark, and the light is fading fast."

So they drove past Westhill, to the disappointment of Lilian, who had looked forward to a chat with Mrs. Wills. But, just beyond, Mrs. Coker pulled up to speak to an aged man, who, accompanied by a large, fierce-looking sheep-dog, was making his way slowly-towards the farm.

"It's Jeffry," she said to Lilian. "How are you, Jeffry?" she inquired.

"Quite well, thank you, ma'am," he replied. "I hope you and Miss Lilian are the same?"

"Yes, thank you," Mrs. Coker answered. "You are not to be at the entertainment on Christmas Eve, I understand," she proceeded. "Mrs. Wills told me, when I last saw her, that you had kindly offered to remain at home in order that the rest of the household may be at the schoolroom. You will not be forgotten, however; Mrs. Wills will bring you a present from the Christmas tree."

"Thank you, ma'am," said Jeffry. "Yes, I've promised to keep house during the others' absence," he went on; "the farmer doesn't like to lock up."

"You will have Wolf for company," remarked Lilian. "Is Wolf here?" she asked.

"Yes, missie," the old man replied. "Ah, he heard you mention his name! There he is, close to you, hoping you'll give him a word."

The dog had approached Lilian's side of the carriage, and was waiting with an expectant expression on his face for her to notice him. The little girl put out her hand and patted his rough head, speaking to him in endearing terms, whereupon, he licked the bare patch of skin between her glove and the sleeve of her jacket.

"You wouldn't think he was savage, would you, ma'am?" said Jeffrey.

"No, indeed!" responded Mrs. Coker. She was watching the child and the dog with smiling eyes.

"Savage?" cried Lilian. "Why, he's a dear quiet old fellow!"

Jeffry chuckled. "He may be to you, missie—I see he is—but he's not to everyone. He won't allow a stranger in the yard after dusk, and folks about here are mostly in fear of him. He's been keeping guard over my coat all the afternoon, and if any one had dared touch it, he'd have flown at that body in a minute."

Jeffry was a faithful old servant who lived at the farm. Age prevented his doing hard labour now; but he was a much-valued dependent, for he was thoroughly trustworthy, and Mr. Wills found him light jobs of work about the place. This afternoon he had been trimming hedges, and carried a reaping-hook in one hand.

"I'm sure he is a faithful doggie," said Lilian; and Wolf raised his eyes to her face and beamed at her.

"Oh, yes, he's faithful," Jeffry agreed, "and he can be very gentle and sweet-tempered on occasions; but he looks just like a wild animal when he shows his teeth and snarls. Why, here's Miss Nellie!" he cried with an abrupt change of tone, as a small figure came flying round the corner. "Where's she running at such a rate, I wonder!"

"Something has happened, I fear!" exclaimed Mrs. Coker, in accents of alarm. "What is it, Nellie?" she inquired anxiously, as the child approached them.

Nellie was breathless and her cheeks were nearly as red as the "tam-o'-shanter," she wore, which had slipped far back on her curly head.

"Oh," she gasped, as she stopped by the side of the pony-carriage, "I mustn't stay a minute, I must get on! I'm going to Westhill to tell Mrs. Wills—we're afraid she'll be dreadfully angry, and it was really my fault—"

"What was your fault?" interposed her mother. "What has happened? Explain, Nellie."

"Bob Wills has met with an accident, mother. He might have been drowned, but he wasn't; he's all right, except that he's soaking wet, and all of a shiver. Oh. I do hope he'll hurry and not catch his death of cold! If he does, I-I shall never get over it!" And Nellie finished her sentence with an excited sob.

"You have been to the pond in the lower meadow, and Bob has fallen into the water?" questioned Mrs. Coker.

"I pushed him in," admitted Nellie. "Oh, mother, I didn't think the ice would give way."

"What took you to the pond? I quite thought you had gone with your father this afternoon!"

"Yes, mother. Father took us to see the Christmas tree cut down, and Bob was there and Farmer Wills too. We selected the tree—such a pretty shape it is, not too tall, but with nice thick branches. And, after it had been cut down, father and Farmer Wills went off together and told us to go home—father had asked Bob back to tea with us. Then Bob said there was a coating of ice on the pond in the lower meadow, and we thought we'd go and have a look at it; so we did. It looked quite firm, and the stones we threw at it just slid along and didn't go through; but I remembered that father had said it wouldn't bear properly for a few days, so I wouldn't go on it, though the boys did. They laughed at me and said I was afraid, but I think they were a bit afraid themselves, for they kept close to the edge. I didn't say anything, but I was vexed, and by-and-by, when Bob came up close to where I was standing, I gave him a push—just a very little push—and he fell and went right through the ice into the water!"

"Oh, Nellie!" cried Lilian. "If it had been a deep part, he might have been drowned!"

"Yes, I know," said Nellie, her eyes drooping beneath her mother's reproachful gaze. "But he clutched hold of a clump of grass at the edge of the pond, and Rupert and I managed to pull him out. They told me to hurry on and tell Mrs. Wills; they're coming behind."

Even as she spoke, the boys appeared round the corner of the road. Bob was in a pitiable condition. He was soaked to the skin, his teeth were chattering, and he was shivering with cold. His eyes flashed wrathfully as they encountered Nellie's.

"Oh, mother, it was not Bob's fault," Rupert was commencing, as they neared the pony-carriage, but his mother cut him short.

"I know all about it, Rupert," she said. "I will go with Bob to the farm and you can go home with Lilian—that is, if Jeffry will be so obliging as to drive you home?"

"Certainly, ma'am," replied Jeffry.

"Thank you, Jeffry. You can bring back the pony-carriage to Westhill; Miss Nellie and I will wait there till you come."

Mrs. Coker now got out of the pony-carriage, and Jeffry took her place, whilst Rupert jumped into the seat opposite, secretly much relieved at the turn matters were taking. Two minutes later, the pony-carriage had disappeared from sight, with Wolf following behind.

Bob felt he had just cause for anger against Nellie; but when she apologised to him very humbly for the rude action which had been the cause of his accident, he could not but be magnanimous and forgive her, especially as her mother, too, seemed very upset. So he told her not to worry, that he was sure he would not catch cold, and that the only thing he was vexed about was that he feared his aunt would not allow him, after he had changed his clothes, to return with them to Haldon Hall to tea.

"You shall come another day," said Mrs. Coker. "Mrs. Wills will be sure to put you to bed as soon as you get home."

This proved to be the case. When Westhill was reached and Mrs. Wills caught sight of her nephew, without waiting for explanations, she ordered him to bed. The copper warming-pan, which hung against the kitchen wall, was taken down and filled with wood coals from the hearth, and in a very short while Bob was lying between hot blankets, a glow of pleasant warmth creeping through his chilled frame.

"I think he'll be all right—don't you, mother?" Nellie questioned, a half-hour later, as she and her mother were driving home.

Mrs. Coker assented. "I hope this will be a lesson to you, Nellie," she said, "and that you will not let your temper get the better of you another time."

"It was such a little push I gave him, mother."

"I daresay, my dear, but great consequence spring from little causes sometimes. In this case, I don't imagine much harm has been done; and, as you say, I think Bob will be all right."

It cheered Nellie to hear this, but she remained somewhat depressed in spirit till the next day, when, accompanied by her brother, she went to inquire for their friend and found him in his usual health. He had never felt better in his life, he assured her, and her sense of relief was intense.