CHAPTER XI

AT MARSHLANDS AGAIN

"Each year to ancient friendships adds a ring, As to an oak, and precious more and more, Without deservingness, or help of ours They grow, and, silent, wider spread each year Their unbought ring of shelter or of shade."

I had so many visits to pay to various friends and relations of my father, who took a kindly interest in my welfare, that it was not until the following Easter-time that I was able to accept Mrs. Winstanley's oft-repeated invitation that I should spend a second holiday at Marshlands. How familiar the dear little station looked as Cathy and I turned out our numerous bags and packages upon the platform at Everton! The very porter knew me again, and greeted me with a grin of welcome; and every house, and tree, and bend of the road as we drove home through the village, felt to me like an old friend.

"Well, Miss Humming-bird, you have grown out of all knowledge!" said the squire. "The gray pony is still at your service, and there's a nice light little rod-and-line we could soon teach you to whip the stream with. We'll make a sportswoman of you yet, I declare!"

Mrs. Winstanley welcomed me home equally with Cathy.

"I'm longing to see your Nature Note-Book," she said. "You must have made many additions since last we met. The wild daffodils are out in the Wyngates meadows, the herons are building in the wood by Carnton Fell, and I have found the remains of another stone circle on the moors, so we shall have plenty of objects for our walks."

To revisit all our old haunts was an immense delight. The rose-tree which I had planted by Edward's arbour had grown into quite a large bush, the tempestuous poodle puppies had settled down into sober, steady-going, well-conducted dogs, which regarded with much disfavour the harum-scarum ways of a youthful Skye terrier, which was the latest favourite. Cathy had a fresh pony, a beautiful little chestnut called Selim, which ran with Lady in the new phaeton, and the rock garden which we had made at the end of the shrubbery was flourishing in the most satisfactory manner.

I found the boys much changed. Edward was very tall, and had begun to speak meditatively of Oxford. He still drawled a little, and fussed over his clothes, but he had taken keenly to politics, and aired socialistic theories which he argued hotly with the squire. Dick had grown quite polite, comparatively speaking, and offered to teach me golf, but we had so many other occupations on hand that I never found time to learn. George had got over the stage of keeping white mice in his pockets, and talked mostly about cricket; he was still at his preparatory school, but he was to leave soon for a training-college for the Navy. They were all as full of fun and chaff as ever, and laughed yet over the remembrance of our joke with the burglar.

Marshlands looked beautiful in the spring-time. The cherry orchards were in full blossom, the woods were tinged with the faintest of tender greens, and we found violets in every hedgerow. It was early April, and the distant fells were capped with snow, while the air had enough of a northern chill in it to make quick walking a pleasure. We were close to the lake country, on the borders of that mountain district where crag and moorland, pine-wood and tarn combine to make some of the most glorious scenery in the British Isles. I have always had an extreme love for the hills, whether they were the rocky sierras of my childhood, or the rugged peaks of Cumberland. Once up on the slopes, with the fresh wind blowing on your cheek, and the valley spread out like a map below, you feel as if you had left the cares of the world behind, and were in a different moral as well as physical atmosphere. If it is true that our surroundings really have an effect upon our characters, I think that those who live on a mountain can never be quite so petty and mean-minded as the dwellers in the plain beneath; something in the majesty of those peaks must surely draw them up, and lift their thoughts towards that other world that is higher than ours.

The days were not half long enough for all our delightful projects. Mr. Winstanley had fulfilled his promise of teaching me to fish, and, armed with the light rod-and-line, I industriously and laboriously whipped the stream; but I fear I was anything but a "compleat angler", for very few of my contributions went to fill the baskets of silvery trout which the boys seemed to catch so cleverly.

"I'm afraid a fisherman is something like a poet, 'born, not made'," I sighed, as I watched Dick choose a fresh fly and secure a catch in the very pool where I had tried for half an hour in vain.

"Oh, it's partly practice!" said Dick, "you'll get into it in time. It's rather slow work, though, and I'm jolly savage myself, sometimes, when I can't get a bite, and feel inclined to agree with Dr. Johnson that a fisherman is 'a worm at one end, and a fool at the other'. That old chap knew life! I'll tell you what; if the governor's willing, we'll get him to take us over for a day to Craigdale, and we'll have a boat and try some sea-fishing. I dare say you'll get on better with the flukes and haddock."

Good-natured Mr. Winstanley proved to be more than willing, so one sunny morning we packed ourselves into the phaeton and dog-cart, and started off on the nine-mile drive to the little fishing-village which was our nearest point on the sea-coast. Craigdale seemed to be a mere handful of whitewashed cottages set in the midst of a sandy marsh, where hardy sea-flowers were springing up and blooming on the wind-swept ridges, and terns and sand-pipers were darting here and there at the edge of the waves, in chase of some detached limpet or scuttling crab. We put up the traps at a small inn called the "Mermaid Arms", the sign-board of which was adorned with a most remarkable painting of a sea-maiden with fish's tail, comb and looking-glass, all complete, ready no doubt to bewitch too venturesome sailors to their doom. The stout, bustling landlady readily agreed to provide us with the best she could muster at so short a notice, and in a very brief time she had produced a smoking dish of ham and eggs, which with brown bread and Cumberland cream cheese we thought a fare not at all to be despised. We made quick work of our lunch, however, being anxious to start off in the boat which was waiting for us down by the jetty, where a bluff, jolly old fisherman was ready with bait and sea-lines. Strange to say, it was the first time I had ever been out in a rowing-boat. Although I had paid several visits to the sea-side with Aunt Agatha and my cousins, we had generally kept to the pier and promenade, and had never ventured upon the briny deep in anything of less size than an Isle of Wight steamer. It was a delightful novelty to find myself so close to the waves that I could hold my hand in the rushing water, and could almost catch the long trails of sea-weed and the great jelly-fishes which floated every now and then past our boat. We rowed out a short distance into the bay, and then cast anchor, as our boatmen assured us that it was a good spot to let down the lines, and we should be certain of having plenty of bites. There was a stiff breeze blowing, and the white caps on the distant waves looked like wild sea-horses chasing each other over the foam; the tide was coming in fast, and our boat swayed to and fro like a cork upon the heavy swell.

"Isn't it jolly?" said George; "I like to be 'rocked in the cradle of the deep'. I mean to be a sailor when I grow up; there's no life like 'a life on the ocean wave'. Hullo, Phil! You don't seem as though you were enjoying yourself! Just look at her, Mater! Her face is the colour of a boiled turnip!"

I certainly was _not_ enjoying myself, for the horrible swinging motion had brought on that peculiar complaint which the French call "mal de mer", and I could only gasp out an entreaty to be taken back anywhere so that I might find my feet upon dry land again.

"Bless the child! I didn't think such a little would upset her!" said the squire, whose own family were all excellent sailors. "Wind up the lines, and we'll row back to the jetty and land her. She'll have to amuse herself on the beach as best she can."

"You'll never make a fisherwoman after all!" laughed Dick, as he helped me to jump out on to the narrow landing-place. "I vowed you should catch at least ten flukes this afternoon, and you've given in before you've had a single bite!"

"I don't care if I never see a fish again!" I said. "You're welcome to my share of them all, and can eat them too, if you like. I'm only too glad to be on terra firma once more, and I wouldn't stay in that little wobbling cockle-shell any longer if you were to offer me a five-pound note for every fish I caught."

But though my fishing efforts had turned out such a disastrous failure, I found I got on much better with riding. Sometimes Cathy and I would go out on Selim and Lady, with the squire or one of the boys on Captain, and then I thought nothing could equal the joy of the brisk canter over the moors, with the dogs racing behind us, and the screaming sea-birds flying away in front. It was delightful to feel the quick motion of the pony under me, as we rapidly covered the ground; and I improved so much that Mr. Winstanley declared he would make a horsewoman of me in the end, and that I should follow the hounds next time I came in the hunting season.

Perhaps of all our expeditions I enjoyed our walks the most. To ramble about the lanes and fields in search of nests or wild flowers was to me always an endless pleasure. Finding that I had never picked wild daffodils before, Cathy suggested one morning that we should walk to Wyngates, where they grew so lavishly that the marshy meadows were literally yellow with them. So with our baskets on our arms, and the new Skye terrier for company, we started off in high spirits. Our way led up a steep lane, the sloping banks of which were spangled with primroses and celandine, while the rough-built walls at the top gave a hold to trailing honeysuckle, ivy, and hazel bushes. It was a grand place for birds' nests, and we made very slow progress as we poked about, peering into every likely-looking spot. Cathy, through long experience, was much more clever at discovering them than I, and while she found three thrushes', a wren's, and two chaffinches', my efforts were only rewarded by a solitary hedge-sparrow's. I had had a kodak for my last birthday present, and I was very anxious to take some snap-shots of the young birds in their nests, fired thereto by the beautiful nature photographs I had seen in the illustrated papers. With a good deal of climbing and difficulty I managed to secure various views of Mrs. Thrush at home, Mrs. Chaffinch's nursery, and the five Miss Hedge-sparrows clamouring for a meal. I used a whole spool of films over them, only to find, when with Dick's assistance I developed them afterwards, that my little camera was not intended for such near distances, and my pictures were so hopelessly out of focus that they were utterly spoilt.

"It's an awful sell, and you've wasted a dozen films," said Dick. "I believe you ought to have a special lens for these nature dodges. Your kodak won't take nearer than seven feet off. Never mind, the ones of the Mater and the house and the village are stunning, and you'll get some good snap-shots when we go over Carnton Fell to the sheep-counting."

But to return to our walk. Leaving the lane and the birds' nests behind, we were soon on the open moor, with the brown of last year's heather around us, and the gorse in brilliant patches of gold scenting the air with its faint peachy smell. Innumerable little mountain springs crossed our path, cutting channels through the peat, and overhung with lady-fern and sedges, and here and there among the furze the shoots of the young bracken were springing green. We cut down a deep gorge into the valley, following the course of a swift stream which was descending with much noise to join the river, and found ourselves at last on a kind of rushy marshland, where deep dykes and high banks told a tale of flooded meadows in winter. It might aptly have been called "The Field of the Cloth of Gold", for the daffodils were growing in such endless profusion that one could have picked for a week without stopping. I filled my basket with infinite satisfaction, and sat down on an old poplar stump to wait for Cathy, who thought she had discovered some new snail-shells in the brook.

"What's that house up there?" I asked, pointing to a gray old Tudor building which stood on the side of the crag above, looking down over the valley towards the dim line of the distant sea.

"Oh, that's Wyngates," said Cathy, pulling herself up the bank with her hands full of treasures. "It's such a dear old place! Would you like to go and see it? Nobody lives there now, and I know the care-taker. I always think it is such fun to explore an empty house."

I had not been over an untenanted home before, so I jumped at the opportunity, and we climbed up the hill-side again to a little iron gate which opened through the hedge from the fields. We found ourselves in an old-world garden such as I had never even imagined. The tall yew hedges had been clipped smooth, with here and there a small window cut in them through which the distant landscape appeared like a picture set in a frame. At either end the trees were fashioned into quaint shapes--peacocks with spreading tails, cocked hats, or ramping lions, all getting a little straggling and untended, but adding a very picturesque feature to the scene. There was a long flagged terrace, with dandelions pushing up between the stones, and roses, grown almost wild, climbing in glorious profusion over the balustrade, while a flight of steps led down to the ladies' pleasaunce, where the narrow grass walks were bordered with box-edgings, and pink daisies and forget-me-nots were trying to struggle through the weeds in the neglected beds. In the centre was a sun-dial with twisted shaft, and an inscription round the capital. We rubbed away the moss which covered the worn letters, and spelt out the words, written in old English characters:

"NESCIES + QUA + HORA + VIGILA",

which we were not Latin scholars enough at the time to be able to translate, but which I afterwards learnt meant "Thou knowest not at what hour. Watch!" I wondered, as I looked, how many footsteps, in the centuries that had fled, had passed up and down that terraced walk, and how many quaint little maidens as young and gay as we, had come to tell the time by that dial, and had read that same motto, "wrought in dead days by men a long while dead". The blossom from the almond-tree above fell on us like pink snow, and a thrush in the lilac bush was ruffling every feather on his little throat in the rapture of his spring song.

"If I could choose any spot in the world I wished, I think I should come to live here," I said, with a long sigh of content as I looked over the sweet-brier fence down the valley to where in the distance gleamed the bay, a faint gray streak against a patch of yellow sand, with the outline of the fells rising up misty and blue behind. Cathy smiled.

"You haven't seen the house yet," she said. "You couldn't live only in a garden."

"I should like to," I replied. "I'd any time rather have a cottage with a beautiful garden, than the most splendid mansion without one. I think out-of-doors is so much nicer than indoors. Perhaps it's my bringing up. In San Carlos we lived mostly in the verandah and on the terrace."

The house proved to be a quaint old stone manor, not large, and quite unpretentious, the kind of dwelling that was built in days gone by for the younger sons of gentry, who farmed a little land, and rode to hounds. Cathy begged the key from the care-taker at the lodge, and we wandered round the panelled rooms, wondering at the black oak beams of the ceilings, and the delightful ingle-nooks of the wide old-fashioned fireplaces.

"How splendid they would look full of blazing logs!" said Cathy. "These old walls ought to be hung with garlands of holly and mistletoe. It would just be the place for a Christmas party."

One room especially fascinated me. It was a small chamber half-way up the stairs, built above the porch, with a large mullioned window from which one looked out over the garden to the very limit of the horizon. The chimney-piece was richly carved, and panelled with coats of arms, but the central panel was occupied by a small oil-painting of a laughing girl, with lace ruffles and flowered bodice, whose fair hair fell in loose curls over her neck and shoulders. So lifelike was the portrait, that for a moment I felt as if the parted red lips were about to speak, and almost waited for the words, while the bright eyes seemed to look out from the wall as if they were following us round the room. In the extreme right-hand corner of the picture was painted the name: "Philippa Lovell".

"Who is she?" said Cathy, in response to my eager enquiries. "Why, the Lovells were a very old family who lived here in the time of the civil wars. Her father was for the King, but her only brother had declared for Cromwell and the Parliament. They met in battle at Naseby, and both fell, each fighting bravely for his own opinions. So the girl was the last of the race. She was a ward of Charles II, and he married her to one of his favourites, who cared for nothing but her lands and her money. She was miserable and ill at the London court, and at last she got leave to return to Cumberland; but it was too late, for she only came home to die. You can see her monument in the church, next to that of her father and brother; the Lovell coat of arms hangs over them all, and the words 'Sic transit gloria mundi'."

So this was the story of my poor little namesake. Her smiles had indeed soon been changed into tears, and very sad eyes must have looked out from the mullioned window to the distant sea. I felt as if the room were still occupied by her memory, and I closed the door almost reverently as I went out, murmuring to myself those lines from Longfellow:--

"We have no title-deeds to house or lands; Owners and occupants of earlier dates From graves forgotten stretch their dusty hands, And hold in mortmain still their old estates".