CHAPTER XI.

MARSHLANDS.

We had started by an early train, and arrived at Netherton soon after four. I knew we were to be met at the station, and was not at all surprised when a fresh-coloured, white-haired old gentleman brandished his stick as a token of welcome to Joyce. I was quite sure that it was Squire Cheriton before Joyce clapped her hands and exclaimed, “There’s gran.”

“Halloa, little one,” he said, cheerily, as she ran up to him with a joyous face, “so you have not forgotten grandfather. Bless me, you are not a bit like Vi, you have taken after Alick. So this is the boy, nurse? Dear me! which is the nurse?” looking at me with rather a puzzled countenance.

“I am the nurse, sir,” I returned, quietly; “and this is Hannah.”

“Hannah Sowerby, of course. Bless me, I never forget a face—never; I knew yours directly,” as Hannah dropped a countrified curtsey to the squire. “I saw Michael the other day; he was looking hale and hearty—hale and hearty; ‘that comes of hard work and temperate living, Michael,’ I said—oh, we are both of an age, old Michael and I, and I am hale and hearty, too. So this is my grandson; he is a fine fellow; takes after Vi, I should say. Come along, come along, there’s auntie waiting for us,” and, talking half to us and half to himself, Mr. Cheriton led us through the station. On the way, however, we were stopped twice; first, the station master was interviewed and the children introduced to him—

“My grandchildren, Drake,” observed the Squire, proudly, twirling his gold headed stick as he spoke; then a burly farmer jostled against the squire, and the two commenced observations on the weather.

“Fine weather for the crops, Roberts; the oats look lively. These are my grandchildren; fine boy that.”

“Little girl looks rather peaky, squire; wants a bit of fattening.”

“Eh, what! We’ll fatten her, won’t we, Joyce?” pinching the child’s thin cheek. “Takes after her father, Alick Morton. You can’t find fault with my grandson, Roberts, I hope; never seen a finer child in my life.”

“Father, father,” exclaimed a fresh young voice, “what are you doing with those children? Methuselah is fretting terribly to be off. Do be quick, pray.”

“I am coming, Gay. Now then, all of you, move on. Ta-ta, Roberts.” And Mr. Cheriton drove us out before him. An open barouche was waiting at the door, and a young lady was on the box trying to hold in a pair of thoroughbreds. When she saw us, she at once handed the reins to her father, and jumped lightly to the ground.

“Kiss me, you darlings,” she said, coaxingly; “don’t you know me yet?” as Joyce hung back a little shyly. “I am Gay, the little auntie, as you used to call me. How do you do, Miss Fenton—you see I know your name. Hannah, I am glad to see you again. There is plenty of room for us all; the boxes are going by omnibus. Now, father, we are all ready,” and in another moment Methuselah and his mate were on their homeward way.

Miss Cheriton chattered all the time. She was a pretty, dark-eyed girl, rather piquante in style, but not equal to her beautiful sister, though I caught an expression that reminded me now and then of my mistress. She struck me as very fresh and unconventional, and she had a bright, chirpy voice and manner that must have been very attractive to children. Joyce made friends with her at once, and even Reggie wanted to go to her, and received her caresses and compliments with unusual condescension.

“How wonderfully he has improved, nurse—Miss Fenton, I mean. My sister told me he was a lovely boy, and so he is. Why, Rolf will look quite plain beside him. What nicely-behaved children they seem. Poor Rolf is such a plague to us all.”

“Don’t you love Rolf, auntie?” asked Joyce, fixing her dark eyes on Miss Cheriton’s face.

The young aunt looked rather perplexed at this question.

“When Rolf is good I love him, but not when he teases, fidgets, or frightens my canaries; I do not love him a bit then. I am always longing to box his ears, only his mother would be so angry with me. Father, dear, do make Methuselah go a little slower, Mr. Hawtry is trying to overtake us.”

“Holloa, Roger,” exclaimed the squire, in his hearty voice, “you did not think to pass Methuselah, did you, on that hack of yours?” And the next moment a gentleman, well mounted on a dark bay mare, rode up, and entered into conversation with Miss Cheriton. He threw a searching glance round the carriage as he lifted his hat, and then laid his hand on the carriage door.

“Good afternoon, squire; Methuselah seems a trifle fresh. How is it you are not driving, as usual, Miss Cheriton? Better employed, I suppose,” with a look at Reggie. “So these are Alick Morton’s children, are they? The little girl looks delicate. You must bring them out to my place; Mrs. Cornish will give them plenty of new milk. By the by, isn’t that Hannah Sowerby?” And as she dimpled and looked pleased, “Why, I was over at Wheeler’s Farm this morning, and your sister Molly was talking about you. I wanted Matthew to come up to the Red Farm for a job—he is a handy fellow, that brother of yours—so, as I was waiting, I had a chat with Molly.”

I looked across at Hannah and saw how this kindly mention of her home pleased her. It was good-natured of Mr. Hawtry to single her out, and this little act of Christian charity prepossessed me in his favour. He was not very young—a little over thirty, I should have judged—and had a strong sensible face, “not a mask without any meaning to it,” as Aunt Agatha sometimes said, but a face that seemed to reveal a sensible, downright character.

I saw Mr. Hawtry look in my direction once a little doubtfully. I daresay, being an old friend of the family, he thought it rather odd that Miss Cheriton did not introduce him to me, but Joyce soon enlightened him.

“Oh, nurse! do look at those pretty flowers,” she called out, pulling my gown to enforce my attention.

“Yes, I see them, dear,” I answered, quietly, and then Reggie became restless and struggled to get to me, so I took him in my arms, and at that moment the carriage turned in at some lodge gates.

I had not been able to judge much of the place. Miss Cheriton’s chatter had engrossed me. I knew we had driven very fast through a pretty village, and that we had turned off down a country road, and that was all. Once I fancied I had caught a blue shimmer in the distance that must have been the sea, but after we had turned into the lodge gates, I took no more notice of Miss Cheriton and her companion. I was far too curious to see Marshlands, the home where my beloved mistress had passed her childhood.

A short avenue brought us to the gravelled sweep before the hall door. A large sunny garden with terraces seemed to stretch into a park-like meadow; in reality it was divided by a wire fence to keep in the sheep that were feeding between the trees. An old white pony was looking across the fence, attracted by the sound of our horses, a little black and tan terrier flew out on the steps barking, and a peacock, who was spreading his tail on the sundial, retreated in much disgust, sweeping his train of feathers behind him.

“Jacko hates Fidgets,” observed Miss Cheriton, as the children clapped their hands at the gorgeous bird, and then Mr. Hawtry dismounted and lifted Joyce out of the carriage.

I stood for a moment with Reggie in my arms, admiring the old red brick house, with its ivy-covered gables, before we entered the wide dark hall, and it was then that I distinctly heard Mr. Hawtry say—

“Who is that young lady?”

“Do you mean the children’s nurse, Miss Fenton?” observed Miss Cheriton, carelessly. “Oh, yes, Vi says she is quite a lady, and very nice, but——” Here I passed on quickly and lost the rest, only my foolish cheeks caught fire. Merle, Merle, be prudent, remember the Valley of Humiliation. What does it matter, my girl, what the world thinks? Eve was a dairymaid in Eden.

An old grey-headed butler had hurried out to meet us. Miss Cheriton, who had joined us after a minute or two, questioned him at once.

“Is Mrs. Markham still out, Benson?”

“Yes, ma’am, and Master Rolf and Judson are with her, but I have taken tea into the morning-room.”

“Very well, Benson, I will be down presently. Now, Miss Fenton, let me show you your quarters,” and she preceded us up the dark old staircase, and down a long narrow lobby, lighted with small lozenged pane windows, and threw open a door at the end of the passage. “This is the old day nursery, and there are two bedrooms communicating with it. Susan will bring up the children’s tea directly. Will you ring for anything you want. I am sorry I cannot wait now, but I must pour out tea for my father and Mr. Hawtry. I will come up again by-and-by,” and she nodded pleasantly and ran away.

I looked round the nursery approvingly. It was such a charming, old-fashioned room, rather low, perhaps, but with brown wainscotting, and a dark panelled ceiling, and wooden window seats, and though the windows were small, they were deliciously quaint, and they looked out on the grass terrace and the sundial, and there was the white pony grazing under the elms, and such a pretty peep of the park, as I supposed they called it. An old black-faced sheep came in sight; I called Joyce to look at it, and even Reggie clapped his dear little hands, and cried out, “Ba—ba, ba—ba.”

The bedrooms were just as cosy and old-fashioned as the nursery. The bed where Joyce and I were to sleep was hung with curious blue chintz, and there was an oak wardrobe that looked black with age, and curious prints in little black frames hung round the walls. Reggie’s cot had chintz hangings too. The afternoon sunshine was flooding the room, as I stood at the window a moment. I called to Hannah to admire the view. We were at the back of the house; there was a kitchen garden and fruit trees, then came a deep, narrow lane and cornfield, and beyond lay the sea; I could even catch sight of a white sail very near the shore.

I never saw Hannah so excited as she was when she caught sight of that lane. She thrust her head out of the window, almost overbalancing herself in her eagerness.

“Why, miss,” she exclaimed, “there is Cherry-tree-lane, and if we could only see round the corner—but those pear trees shut it out—we should see Wheeler’s Farm. Isn’t it like being at home?” her voice trembling with emotion. “Directly I had a taste of the salt air, and a glimpse of Squire Hawtry’s cornfields, I felt almost beside myself.” And indeed the girl’s honest joy was good to witness, and again, as I thought of those sisters crowding out the attics of Wheeler’s Farm, I could have found it in my heart to envy Hannah.

When I had taken off the children’s things we went back to the day nursery. A freckled-faced country girl was covering the round table with all sorts of dainties—new laid eggs, fruit, jam, and honey; there seemed no end to the good things. She nodded to Hannah in a friendly way, and asked after her health in broad Sussex dialect.

“Do you know Susan?” I observed, in some surprise, as I poured out some milk for the thirsty children.

“She is a neighbour’s daughter,” replied Hannah, as she waited on us. “Susan was never much to my taste, but we learnt our samplers together. The Mullinses are not our sort,” she continued, with manifest pride. “Joseph Mullins is the village cobbler, but he is none too steady, and father and Molly can’t abide him.”

As soon as the children had finished their tea, I took them to the window, where they found plenty to amuse them. The white pony was still cropping the grass; here and there was a nibbling sheep; the rooks were cawing about their nests in the elm trees; the peacock was strutting along the terrace, accompanied by his mate; a pair of golden-crested pheasants followed them.

Presently the bay mare was brought round by a groom, and Mr. Hawtry came out on the terrace, and stood talking to Mr. Cheriton before he mounted.

“Why did you call him Squire Hawtry, Hannah?” I observed, curiously, as he rode away down the avenue.

“He is mostly called by that name,” returned Hannah. “He is a gentleman farmer, and lives at the Red Farm down Dorlcote way. His mother and sister used to live with him, but his mother died two years ago, and Miss Agnes did not long survive her. She was a sweet creature, and very handsome, but she had been a sad invalid the last few years of her life.”

“Poor Mr. Hawtry! and he is all alone.”

“Quite alone, except for his good old housekeeper, Mrs. Cornish; she takes good care of Mr. Roger, as she calls him. Folks say,” continued Hannah, somewhat hesitating, “Squire Hawtry has had enough of loneliness and nursing Miss Agnes, and that he is looking out for a wife; he and Miss Gay are firm friends, and——”

“I think Reggie is getting sleepy,” I observed, hastily, for Joyce was listening with all her might, and the old proverb is true in saying “little pitchers have long ears;” besides which this was gossiping about other people’s affairs, and Hannah knew I never countenanced gossip; it always seemed to me such a mean and undignified thing to chatter about those who were inmates of the house that sheltered us. We had partaken of their bread and salt, and so they ought to have been sacred to us. How little the world understands the so-called word “honour,” but “_Noblesse oblige_” is a safe motto.

Hannah took the hint with her usual good nature, and went off for the bath water. The next moment there was a slight peremptory tap at the nursery door, and before I could answer a tall, elegant-looking woman, dressed in black, entered the room. I rose at once in some little trepidation; of course it was Mrs. Markham.

“Good evening, nurse,” she said, in rather a thin, highly-pitched voice. “I hope you find yourself comfortable, and that the children are not tired with the journey.” Then, without waiting for an answer, she seated herself languidly, and called to Joyce, “Come to me, my dear; I am your Aunt Adelaide; good children always come when they are called.”

I gave Joyce a slight push, for she was hanging back in a most unaccountable way, and yet she was by no means a shy child, and would be friendly even with strangers, if she liked their appearance. I thought Mrs. Markham looked a little annoyed at her hesitation, but she controlled herself and tried coaxing.

“What would your mamma say, if you refused to kiss poor Aunt Adelaide? Come, that is better,” as Joyce advanced, timidly. “Why what a thin, sickly-looking child it is,” regarding the sweet little face before her rather critically; “I should hardly have thought,” speaking half to herself, “that Violet would have had such a plain child.”

I was indignant at this; for everyone thought Joyce had a lovely little face, though it was rather too thin and grave. “Excuse me, Mrs. Markham,” I observed, hastily, “but Joyce is a very forward child, and understands all that is said before her,” for it was hard that our pet should meet with such a cold reception.

Mrs. Markham regarded me with a supercilious stare; she evidently thought I was taking a liberty with her in venturing to remonstrate, but I took no notice, and prudently restrained myself.

I felt, even at that first moment, an unaccountable dislike to Mrs. Markham. Most people would have pronounced her very handsome, in spite of her sallow complexion and thin lips, but a certain hardness in her expression repelled me, as it repelled Joyce. Her dark eyes regarded one so coldly; there was such hauteur and indifference in her manners; and then the metallic harshness of her voice! “How could she be Mrs. Morton’s sister?” I thought, as I recalled the sweet graciousness, the yielding softness, that made my dear mistress so universally beloved.

(_To be continued._)

CHRISTMAS IN THE GERMAN FATHERLAND.

In the days of my youth it was my good fortune to have letters of introduction to some German friends of our family, and to be invited to spend the winter with them in their charming country house at the foot of the Riesengebirge.[1]

It was the 24th of December, and bitterly cold, when I emerged from the railway carriage upon the platform of a small country station, and was taken into friendly possession by a vivacious little dark-eyed baroness and her tall, flaxen-haired son, who, with many fears that I must be nearly frozen by my long journey from Berlin, wrapped me in an extra fur and supplied me with a third veil before allowing me to encounter the keen outer air and a long sledge drive.

To drive in a sledge at all was to me a novel and delightful experience, and the sledge to which I was now conducted was particularly pretty, with its body of light carved wood, its fur rugs lined with crimson, its pair of cream-coloured Russian ponies, with their harness studded with silver knobs, and arches of silver bells over their heads; and when once we were all warmly ensconced among the cushions and wrappers, and were gliding with noiseless swiftness over the well-kept sledge-way, it seemed to me that sledging was the very acme of luxurious motion, and I felt almost sorry when Baron Max checked his ponies to point out the high tower, now close at hand, which he said formed part of the main building of his home.

After passing through some fine pine-woods, we drove across the whilom moat, now planted with trees and called the Dark Walk, and, driving under a small archway, found ourselves in a spacious court laid out as a flower-garden, while facing us, and forming three sides of a hollow square, stood the schloss itself. The great entrance was approached by a long flight of steps, and upon these were several liveried servants awaiting our arrival, while at the sound of the sleigh-bells and the cracking of the driver’s whip, two great wolfhounds rushed out to welcome their master, and were followed, more sedately, by the daughters of the house, who from their striking disparity in height were always known by the sobriquet of Tiny and Tall.

To Tiny’s care I was immediately consigned, and, after a brief adjournment to my room, was led by her into the saloon, where we found Tall presiding over the coffee and cakes, which, as I discovered later on, she had herself prepared.

The Baroness had disappeared, leaving an apology for me that, as it was Christmas Eve, she had much to do, to which she must attend, and while we were waiting the signal to go and view the tree, Tiny and Tall proceeded to enlighten me as to many of their national customs in connection with this particular season.

In this village, for instance, as in many others of the Fatherland, and especially in Southern Germany, a veiled woman goes up and down the streets after nightfall, bearing in her arms a child chosen for his beauty and goodness to represent the Infant Saviour, and as they pass along they find the cottage windows discreetly left ajar, so that the Christ-child, as he is called, can leave upon the sill some token of the day. Every good child, upon awakening next morning, finds gifts—oranges, sweeties, or some such things; but, alas for the child who has been naughty! for him are no such delights; for him there lies only a pliant willow or birchen rod, suggestive of the chastisement he deserves. Into the towns the Christ-child seldom comes; he is there replaced by the Christmas tree; and it was to decorate such a tree that the mother of the family had now disappeared.

The room in which I was hearing all this was large and lofty, lighted by five windows, the remaining walls being hung with ancestral portraits; for these unassuming, domesticated young girls were the descendants of a noble and historical line, would not have changed their ancient barony for a modern dukedom, and with pardonable pride showed me the family portraits, and gave me slight sketches concerning the originals. The most striking of these was certainly the full-length picture of that old field-marshal of whom Carlyle thus graphically writes:—“With regard to Friedrich, the court-martial needs no amendment from the King. The sentence on Friedrich, a lieutenant-colonel guilty of desertion, is from president and all members, except two, death as by law.”

From this portrait we turned to that of Frederic the Great himself—his own gift to the family; from that prince the transition was easy to the subject of the Seven Years War, and we had begun planning excursions to the different battlefields when a bell began to ring, and changed the current of our thoughts.

We rushed down a long corridor, being joined as we went by different other members of the household, and reached the room from whence the blaze of light betrayed the presence of the great tree. It was, indeed, a giant, and formed a most imposing spectacle, as it stood in the centre of the large room, dazzling with variegated waxen tapers, shimmering all over with ice-like crystals, and decorated with gilded fruits and sweetmeats. The base of this wonderful member of the vegetable world was covered by a pyramid of the tempting confectionery and gingerbread peculiar to the province, and for which lots had afterwards to be drawn.

Round the room, and overshadowed by the mighty branches of the central tree, stood tiny specimens of the same tribe, each standing upon a table laden with gifts, and each destined for a separate member of the family and household.

Even I, stranger as I was, had my own little tree and table of presents—pieces of fine Silesian linen, a huge surprise ball,[2] and a pretty gold brooch, embossed with roses and forget-me-nots, which I cherish still in remembrance of my first happy visit to Germany. There were so many pretty things to admire, so many thanks to tender, so many good wishes to exchange, that it was growing quite late before we could make up our minds to leave these “halls of dazzling light” for the more prosaic supper-room.

Here—as in Germany the Eve is more celebrated (except as regards religious services) than the Christmas Day itself—we found the traditional dishes of Germany and of England. In honour of Germany I had to make acquaintance with real black bread—“Pumpernickel,” as they call it in some parts of Germany, sauerkraut, and raw smoked ham, all of which at first I secretly thought odious, but eventually grew to like very much; and in honour of England we had plum pudding and mince pies—the former not at all badly cooked, the latter a dismal failure, as most English housewives will understand when I tell them that the cook, although adhering strictly to the proportions of an excellent recipe, had—for some extraordinary reasons of his own—pounded the whole into a paste, and enclosed it in a very thick crust, the shape and size of a small pork pie.

We did not linger long after supper; for it had been a long and fatiguing day for everyone. As for myself, after so many interesting and novel incidents, and so long and wearying a journey, I was only too glad to find myself once more in my own room, and I slept without pause or wakening until the appearance of the young ladies’ maid, Amalia, at my bedside next morning with a cup of coffee and the intimation that it was now 7.30, and that the sledge for church-goers would be at the door at nine o’clock.

We were off punctually to the time, and after about half an hour’s drive over the hard-frozen snow, upon which the brilliant sunshine was streaming down, we reached the unpretending-looking little Lutheran church. Here, as the due of the Adel,[3] we sat in a gallery all by ourselves, and had high-backed velvet chairs, surmounted by the baron’s coronet, and with footstools embroidered to match; and very strange it seemed to me to be looking down from this pinnacle of isolated grandeur upon the poorer congregation below.

Generally speaking, these wore the costume of the province, and a charming costume too—a short skirt of red, green, or blue serge, with five broad bands of black velvet round the lower edge; black velvet bodice, laced over a full chemisette, and sleeves of white cambric; pointed velvet cap (of the Stuart shape), in colour matching the skirt, adorned with heavy gold braiding, and edged with a fluting of Silesian lace. Long gold earrings and a broad gold plaque, set with garnets and suspended by a slender chain round the neck, were the ornaments worn with this costume, and were, as I was afterwards told, handed down as family heirlooms from mother to child.

The dress of the men was, of course, less elaborate. It consisted of dark-blue or grey cloth suits, much adorned with silver buttons. Both men and women wore long black stockings and buckled shoes as part of their Sunday garb, but on weekdays generally go barefoot.

Those among the congregation who abjured these picturesque costumes and went in for modern fashion, wore—like the gentle folk—black; and I found to my astonishment that black was also _de rigueur_ for Confirmation and the Holy Communion. The clergyman, a tall, kindly-looking old man, wore a long black gown and a wide box-pleated ruff. There was an ebony and silver crucifix upon the altar, which had lighted waxen tapers burning upon it. The musical part of the service was led by a full brass band; and, to complete my surprise, I found it was against rule to kneel at any time; one either sat or stood.

All this seemed so utterly at variance with recognised ideas in England upon the same subject, that I am afraid I did not much profit by my first church-going in the Fatherland. Still, it was an interesting experience, and when time had familiarised me more with both the language and the customs, I found a great deal that I could honestly admire, though I never ceased to prefer our own bright and beautiful Liturgy to the somewhat ponderous nature of worship in the Fatherland.

FOOTNOTES:

[1] A lofty chain of mountains lying to the south of the province of Silesia.

[2] A ball of this kind is a favourite gift in Germany. It looks like a very unskilfully-wound ball of knitting wool. You are bound in honour to knit it up, and as you do so you disclose, one by one, a variety of gifts, the most precious being generally the innermost of all.

[3] Nobility.

“NO.”

BY MARY E. HULLAH.