Читать книгу The Girls of the Hamlet Club - Elsie Jeanette Dunkerley - Страница 4

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Lunch at ‘The Cat and Rabbit,’ a lonely inn among the beech-woods, was over; but the pony was still resting in the stable. Cicely and her father sat in a little wood, which they were exploring before driving on to Wendover, and so home by the main road.

The morning had been spent in lanes and bypaths, and progress had been slow. But they had seen many things, and Cicely had some idea now of the country to which she had come. They had seen the cedars, the peacocks, and the black Scotch cattle at Hampden; had gazed at the mansion from the park; and had explored the church, where the old oak pews, the monuments, and the lepers’ windows had given her keen delight. They had wandered in the Glade, and she had been quite unable to find words for her appreciation as they drove down the avenue, with beeches many centuries old swaying great branches across, laden with yellowing leaves, and in the shadows beneath, the vivid red carpet of last year, the misty gray-green of the stems, the dim silent depths of sleeping woods.

They had passed round yellow hayricks, with queer pointed tops, and families of handsome white hens and fine young turkeys. They had startled pheasants from their hiding-places, and her father had laughed when the first rose, almost under their pony’s feet, with a wild cry, and she clutched at his arm in dismay.

She understood now that the hill which held the white Cross was the end of a long chain of rounded hills, sweeping up over ‘ridges’ and down into ‘bottoms,’ covered with woods and farms, and here and there a big house and park, as at Hampden. So far they had seen no town, or even a village, since they left Whiteleaf; but her father assured her that there were little towns not far away, lying in the valleys, and this morning all their time had been spent on the high tableland, of which Whiteleaf Hill was one steep side.

‘But why are nearly all the hens white? Why are the haystacks round? And why do pheasants make that hideous noise?’ she queried, as they sat resting in the wood.

He did not answer at once. When he spoke there was unusual gravity in his tone. As a rule, he chaffed and joked with her, and was rarely serious; so at his first words she turned to him in surprise.

‘Cis, I’m going to tell you a story.’

‘Yes? Is it a true-in-earnest story, dad?’

‘Very true, and very much in earnest. It is about your mother, Cicely.’

She looked up, startled. She could not remember her mother, whose name was never mentioned between them, and rarely by Mrs Gaynor. Cicely understood that her father’s grief for his wife was still so keen that she was not to trouble him with questions. This was the first time he had spoken of her of his own accord. There was great wistfulness in her voice as she said quietly, ‘Tell me about her, daddy. I have so longed to hear.’

‘When she was a girl, she lived very near here. I will show you her home on our way back to the inn.’

‘Oh!’ Cicely’s face lit up. ‘Then I belong here partly. I’m glad! I like it all already.’

‘You belong to it entirely. You are a Bucks lassie altogether, though you never saw your county till to-day. My home as a boy was on the hills over yonder, between The Lee and Wendover. Your mother and I often met and rode and drove together.’

‘I wondered why you could drive so well. We never have a man, do we? It’s much jollier alone.’

‘Your mother and I grew up together. But my father had business troubles, and when he died our old house was sold. I took a position in the business in Ceylon, in which I have remained ever since; though of course my place in it is very different now. But Cicely Broadway and I loved one another, and she was ready to leave her parents and join me out there. They could not bear the thought of it. She was their only child, and they could not lose her. She had other offers of marriage, which would have allowed her to remain near her parents. It is not strange that they refused to let her go so far away. And they believed she was not strong enough to live out there. In that they were right, for she was never strong after you were born, or indeed before. I could not ask her to be my wife when it meant giving up so much, and when her parents were not willing. But she wanted it, and she always had her way. She knew I was longing for her out there, and she could not be happy here. We had always felt we belonged to one another, and she would not listen to any other offer. At last they wrote to me that she was making herself ill, and that I must come home. It broke their hearts to give her up; but they put her happiness before their own and let me take her away.’

‘That was nice of them,’ Cicely said softly. ‘And her name was the same as mine?’

‘Cicely Broadway of Broadway End—yes. Well, as you know, she only lived a year—and I had to write and tell them.’

Cicely reached for his hand, and laid her cheek against it. ‘They’d feel they couldn’t forgive me for being born, or you for taking her away, daddy.’

‘Something very like that. I thought they might want to have you for their own, since she had left you behind. If they had asked for you, I would have felt I had to give you up, since I had taken her away. I thought you might be some comfort to them. But they didn’t want you, Cis, and I was very glad, for I did not want to give you up. You won’t remember your few years in Ceylon; but I was very lonely, and was glad to have you with me. You were company, even though you were only a little baby.’

Cicely could not speak. She fondled his hand, and gazed with dim eyes into the ruddy depths of the wood. ‘It sounds so awfully lonely, dad,’ she faltered at last. ‘I wish I was old enough to go back with you and be company properly.’

‘I’m looking forward to that time too. But I have plenty of friends now, you know. You mustn’t worry over me; I get along well enough. But when you come, that will be another matter; we’ll have rare times together. And now with regard to your grandparents, Cicely. When I had to send you home, your natural place would have been with them; but they feared you would remind them of her, and make them grieve for her afresh. I have written several times suggesting you should visit them, but always with the same result. They feel that their Cicely is gone, and they do not want another.’

‘Like when you lose any pet! Yes, daddy; but if you do have another, it does make up for the first one after a while. It only hurts at first.’

‘Yes; I think you might have been a comfort to them. But they did not think so, and would not try the experiment. But I have felt it my duty to renew the offer from time to time, in case they should have changed their minds. And just the other day I had a letter from your grandfather.’

She looked up in quick dismay. ‘Oh, but I wouldn’t like to go now! It would have been all right if I had gone to them when I first came home, before I had any friends in England. But now I’ve heaps of friends, and I couldn’t leave them. You aren’t going to say they want me now, after all this time, daddy? I won’t go! They should have asked me at first. It isn’t that, is it?’

‘Something very like it,’ he said gravely. ‘Now wait and hear me out, Cis. I’m not going to say you must go. Don’t be afraid. I feel as you do, that it is hardly fair to uproot you now, after so long. But I want you to understand.’

‘I won’t go!’ Cicely murmured mutinously. ‘It isn’t fair. Why, it would mean leaving school, daddy!’

‘Mr Broadway’s letter tells me that at present your grandmother is lying ill at Broadway End, their big house near here. She had an attack of bronchitis some time ago, and it has left her heart weak. He says that when she was very ill, a short time ago, she expressed regret that she had never seen Cicely’s child. She has not mentioned you again, and he dare not suggest the thought to her, as, while she is so weak, any excitement would be very dangerous. But he says if, when she is stronger, she should again express regret, or if she should ask for you, he would like to be able to send for you immediately. Now I want you to help me to decide, Cis. Your home with Mrs Gaynor is too far away for you to be of any use there. It would take hours to send for you, and he may want you at a moment’s notice, if it should be necessary to satisfy her. So it means leaving home and living somewhere near.’

‘I don’t want to do that,’ Cicely said instantly. ‘Why, dad, as likely as not he may never want me. If she gets better, they’ll just go on as before, saying they’d rather not see me. It’s a mere chance if I’d do any good by staying here. It isn’t fair to ask me to leave Mrs Gaynor, and home, and the girls, and school, and all my friends just for that. You don’t want me to do it, do you?’

‘Why, yes, I do,’ said her father. ‘I think it would be best.’ Her face fell in deep distress. ‘I feel we have some duty towards these lonely old people, Cis, and I think your mother would have wanted you to do this thing for them. But, though I feel for them, I care more for you. I could not bear to go away leaving you unhappy. If you feel that you really cannot be happy in leaving the Gaynors, I will not ask you to do it. I care most for your happiness, but I want you to decide which way will make you most really happy. So, though I would like you to please your grandfather in this, I shall not insist on it if you feel it is asking too much. But I want you to think it over for a few days before deciding finally.’

‘But where would I live? What about school?’ Cicely asked dolefully. ‘Oh, I don’t like the thought of it, daddy! It would be so lonely—you away in Ceylon, and I here in the country, instead of with Mrs Gaynor and the others. Surely you’d rather know I was safe with them?’

‘You’ll be safe and comfortable enough. Be sure I shall see to that, Cis. Down in Whiteleaf there lives a nice woman, who used to be a servant at Broadway End, and was devoted to your mother. Now she is a widow, with a dear little cottage opposite the inn’——

‘With yellow roses, and apples? I saw it this morning. Well, but, daddy’——

‘Phœbe—Mrs Ramage—would be delighted to have you to board with her. You would be quite comfortable, and I think you would be happy. She would be very good to you.’

‘But it sounds awfully slack, daddy—just me and an old woman! What could I do all the time? What about school?’

‘Down in Wycombe there is a big girls’ day-school to which you could go. I know Miss Macey, and would be quite satisfied to send you to her. The school has a good name, and over a hundred girls from all parts of the district go to it. You could have your cycle, and ride through the woods each day, only going by train when it was wet.’

Cicely nodded thoughtfully. But so sudden and complete a change was very repugnant to her, and she shrank from the thought intensely. ‘I’d very much rather stay with Mrs Gaynor, daddy. I have heaps of friends at school, and we have awfully good times. These other girls may be nice, but then they may be horrid. Oh, can’t I go on as I always have done? I do hate changes! It’s just what you said, like pulling up roots. And no good may come of it. It’s all a chance; they might never want me.’

‘On the other hand, you might be just the one thing your grandmother needed to make her wish to grow strong again.’

Cicely wriggled uneasily. ‘She should have had me before, then, when I was too small to be keen on things and people. Why, dad, there are heaps of things I’d have to give up—things that depend on me! I play goal for the hockey-team, and there’s no one else to take it on. And I’m secretary of our literary society, and I was to try for the scholarship at Christmas. Our school hasn’t won it for three years, and they said I had a good chance of it this time. Miss Raynham was so hoping I’d get it—five pounds to spend in books, you know!’

‘You are a very important person, evidently,’ he smiled. ‘Well, Cis, you must think it over. Only remember, though I don’t say you must stay here, I would like you to, and I think your mother would have wished it also. Now, dear, I am going away to-morrow. I have to see some people in Liverpool, and I may not get back to you for a few days’—in answer to her startled look. ‘I will leave you in Phœbe’s care, though we will go back to our little inn for to-night. I will come as soon as I can, and you shall tell me what you have decided.’

‘Couldn’t I go home and wait for you there?’ she asked, her lips quivering at the prospect of parting.

‘Why, I thought you’d like to spend a few days in your own country! I thought you liked the woods, Cis!’

‘I do, but I’d rather go home just now. But, of course, if it isn’t to be home any more’—— and her voice broke. ‘Oh, well, I’ll stay here, if you like, just for a day or two. But I’d much rather not be here all the time you’re away.’

‘Now suppose we go and see your mother’s home. It will not take us far out of our way. Every inch of these woods, every step of the road, reminds me of her, Cicely. We used to roam through all these woods together—Hampden, Hampdenleaf, Scrubwood—she loved them all, pine or larch or beech.’

He talked on to cheer her up as they drove through narrow lanes, where the brambles reached out long fingers to scratch the trap and tug at Cicely’s hair; by soft cart-tracks through the woods; and out at last on a broad white road, firm and hard, running very straight along the foot of the hills—the Roman road.

Before they left the hills he drew up and pointed down a long valley, where, on a hillside, stood a big gray house. ‘That’s Broadway End, Cis, with the beechwood behind.’

It was a long, straight house, with pillared front and rows of windows, and great cedars on the terrace, as at Hampden. The wood behind showed every colour a beech-leaf can take in October. There were green patches of garden lying about the house, and a park with elms and chestnuts dotted about; but more than that Cicely could not see, for they were a long way off.

‘It looks a great big house. Why is it called Broadway End, daddy? Is it the end of the wood?’

‘Honorend—Beamond End—Buckmoorend—it’s very usual in these parts. So are “ridge” and “bottom” and “row.” You’ll meet them everywhere. Now let’s get home, and after tea I’ll introduce you to Phœbe Ramage.’

‘Daddy,’ Cicely said suddenly, as they drove down the Roman road, ‘do you remember the jolly, singing girl we met near the Cross? Do you suppose she goes to that same school in Wycombe?’

He laughed. ‘It’s possible; but there are others, you know. Did you like the look of her so much? She was very pretty.’

‘She looked ripping! Oh, if I knew there was one nice girl there it would make some difference!’

‘I think I can promise you there will be one nice girl among the hundred.’

‘You can never be sure,’ Cicely said pessimistically; ‘and they’re all nice at Miss Raynham’s.’

‘Oh, come, Cis! I’ve heard you criticise some of them pretty severely.’

Cicely sighed. ‘Just now it seems to me they’re all very nice,’ she said; and her father smiled.