A Terrible Tomboy Page 7

  CHAPTER VI

  SUNDAY

  'A poor man served by thee shall make thee rich; A sick man helped by thee shall make thee strong; Thou shalt be served thyself by every sense Of service which thou renderest.'

  It was Sunday afternoon, and the children sat in the Rose Parlour, withthe windows wide open to let in all the sweet summer scents from thegarden.

  Patient Lilian was struggling to teach Bobby a Scripture lesson, for hisform-master had decreed that the names of the books of the Old Testamentmust be repeated without a slip immediately after prayers on the ensuingMonday morning. Poor Bobby had neither a retentive memory nor a greatdisposition to learn. He fidgeted, and kicked the leg of the table, andsaid it was 'a jolly shame for old Peters to give a fellow Sunday prep.'He hopelessly confused Ezra and Esther, floundered at Ecclesiastes, andthe minor prophets filled him with despair.

  'Oh, Bobby, _do_ try again,' entreated Lilian. 'Obadiah, Jonah, Micah,Nahum, Habakkuk.'

  'It's no use, Lil,' said the despondent Bobby. 'I may as well make up mymind to take a caning and spare myself the trouble.'

  'Lilian dear, are you busy?' said Aunt Helen, putting her head roundthe door. 'I thought you might have taken this jar of beef-tea to oldEphraim. I hear he is not so well again, and he was not in church thismorning.'

  'Oh, Auntie, let me take it!' cried Peggy, glad of any excuse tointerrupt the study of her Collect and Catechism.

  'Be careful not to spill it, then, and be sure to bring back the basket.And while you are there, I have no doubt he would be pleased if you readto him for a little. He is getting so blind now, poor old man! and it isdull for him, living all alone,' said Aunt Helen, who liked to teach thechildren to help their neighbours.

  Old Ephraim was a quaint and original character. He had come to Gorswenfrom the North country, and had been shepherd for forty years at theAbbey. He was past work now, and lived in one of the village almshouses,subsisting partly on the parish dole and partly on private charity; forthough Mr. Vaughan might practise rigid economy in his own privateexpenses, he had never a grudging hand towards the poor.

  The little low whitewashed cottage was a humble enough place, but itlooked cheerful this Sunday afternoon, with the sunlight streaming inthrough the tiny window, and a few early white roses shedding theirsweet perfume in the small garden in front.

  Peggy found the old man seated in his elbow-chair by the fireside, hishead enveloped in a huge flat oat-cake, tied on with a red cottonpocket-handkerchief, so that he resembled some new species of mushroom.

  'Why, Ephraim!' she cried, stopping short in amazement; 'whatever is thematter? And what have you got on your head?'

  'Headache, Miss Peggy,' replied Ephraim, shaking his gray lockssolemnly. 'There ain't nothink like a hot oat-cake for a bad head; it docure it wonderful, to be sure.'

  'Well, it seems a queer thing to put on, anyhow,' remarked Peggy,wondering privately whether the old man would consume his remedyafterwards for tea. 'How is the rheumatism?'

  'Better, Miss Peggy--gradely better since I've kept a potato in mypocket. Ah, it's a fine thing for the rheumatics, is a potato. But,'with a sly wink, 'it must be stolen, or it beant no use at all!'

  'Did you _steal_ it, then, Ephraim?' cried Peggy with thrillinginterest.

  'That's as may be,' replied the old man, willing to change the subjectnow it was growing personal. 'Is your pa keepin' well these days?'

  'The Catechism says it's wrong to steal,' observed the righteous Peggy,keeping sternly to the point, and anxious to improve the occasion.'Haven't you got a Bible, Ephraim?'

  'Ay, ay,' returned the culprit evasively, 'there be one somewheres.'

  'Don't you know where it is?' said Peggy severely.

  'Oh ay! Hannah Jones was in a' Saturday, sidin' th' top o' th' cupboard,and I see'd her wi' it in her hand. Oh, I reads the Bible, I does. It'sall about wars--them Israelites foightin' wi' the other heathen.'

  'It's about something else, too,' replied Peggy: 'miracles and parablesand epistles, and--oh! lots of things. Wouldn't you like me to read someto you?'

  'Nay now, Miss Peggy,' said Ephraim, much alarmed lest she should expecthim to stir his rheumatic old bones in a search on the cupboard-top. 'Ireckon sometimes 'tis better to think on things nor to read 'em. I'vetime to do a deal o' thinkin', settin' here.'

  'Perhaps I might read you something else, then?' volunteered Peggy,determined to be a ministering angel, despite the evident unwillingnessof her protege.

  'Yea,' said the old man, considerably relieved; 'there be a drawer fullo' books i' the dresser. Take your choice, miss--take your choice.'

  Peggy turned out the drawer by the simple process of emptying it on thetable, and disclosed a very miscellaneous collection ofliterature--socialist pamphlets, agnostic newspapers, and radical tractswere mixed up with teetotal treatises, missionary leaflets, and theparish magazine. Sheets of ballads, which Ephraim had bought as a boy,lay side by side with a tattered copy or two of Zadkiel's propheticalmanac, some advertisements of patent medicines, a recipe forsheep-dip, and a Wesleyan hymn-book. Peggy gazed eagerly at an ancientchap-book, which set forth the stories of Dick Turpin and Jack Sheppard,interspersed with rude woodcuts of the gallows and whipping-post; butshe heroically put it aside, as being unsuitable for the day.

  Finally, she settled upon a little worn volume bound in calf, with thetitle, 'A Sigh of Sorrow for the Sinners of Zion, breathed by an EarthlyVessel known among Men by the Name of Samuel Fish.'

  'I'm sure Aunt Helen would think this all right to read to him,' shesaid to herself, as she drew a chair to the other side of the fire.

  It was not very easy reading, for the print had faded till it was almostthe colour of the yellow leaves, and the 's's' were all long, so thatPeggy found herself continually reading 'fins' instead of 'sins'; butshe did her best, conscientiously, and the old man nodded in his chair,sitting up briskly, however, when he felt her reproachful eyes upon him.

  Peggy stopped, quite hot and weary, at the end of the first chapter.

  'Do you like it, Ephraim?' she inquired anxiously.

  'Ay, Miss Peggy, it be foine, it be, surely,' said the old man.

  'What does it all mean?' said the child. 'It is so hard to read, I canscarcely understand it.'

  'Why, as to that, miss,' answered Ephraim, 'it seems to me as long asit's pious words, there beant no call to understand 'em, let alone I'mthat deaf to-day, it seems naught but a buzzin' like when you read.'

  Peggy closed the book hurriedly.

  'I think I had better be going now,' she announced. 'I hope yourheadache will be well soon. Can't I put the kettle on for you?'

  'Ay, miss, if you be so bountiful. My rheumatics be cruel bad when Istir me.'

  Peggy filled the kettle from the pump in the back garden, and hung it onits hook over the fire. She found the old man's cup and saucer, and setout his tea on the little round table by his side, and finally took herdeparture, feeling she had at least attended to his temporal wants, andmight leave the rest to older and wiser heads than hers.

  'I'll call and see Mrs. Davis; there'll be plenty of time before tea,'she said to herself, as she came back up the village street, swingingher empty basket.

  Mrs. Davis was a dear old Welshwoman, and a particular friend ofPeggy's. She was one of Nature's gentlewomen, for her kind heartprompted those little gracious, courteous acts which in a higher classwe call good breeding. She made quite a picture in her shortlinsey-woolsey petticoat, with the check apron, her plaid shawl crossedover her cotton bodice, and the frilled white cap framing the kind oldface, with its apple cheeks and soft white hair. She was sitting amongher bees this Sunday afternoon, beating with an iron spoon upon an oldtin kettle.

  'They be swarming, indeed, Miss Peggy,' she said. 'And here I've had tosit the whole of the day, beating this old tin--and Sunday, too! But wecan't expect the poor creatures to understand that, can we?'

  'I suppose not,' said Peggy, settling herself on a low wooden s
eat, at asafe distance from the agitated hives, and letting her glance wanderround the little garden, where the tall yellow lilies reared theirstately heads over a mass of sweet cottage flowers, pinks andforget-me-nots, poppies and double daisies, sweet-williams--loved of thebees--pansies, lupins, and snap-dragons; over the cottage, where thewhite roses climbed up the thatch to the very chimneys, and wherethrough the open doorway could be seen the neat kitchen, with itsred-brick floor, the settle placed by the fireside, the tallgrandfather's clock ticking away in the corner, and the oak dresser,with its rows of blue willow-pattern plates; and back again at last towhere Mrs. Davis sat with her grandchild by her knee, a small round-eyedboy, whose thumb was stuck perpetually, like a stopper, in his mouth,and who stood watching the bees with stolid indifference.

  'Won't he get stung?' asked Peggy, who thought he looked far too near tothe swarming hives for safety.

  'No, dearie. I think they know me and Willie now, though they'd attack astranger as soon as not.'

  'I was dreadfully stung once,' confided Peggy. 'I lifted off the littlebox on the top of one of the Rectory hives, just to see how the beeswere getting on, and they all came rushing out and settled on me. Mr.Howell seized me, and put my head under the pump, and Father was ever socross, for he said I shouldn't have meddled with them.'

  'The bees don't like to be interfered with,' said Mrs. Davis. 'Youshould never touch them in the daytime. Always take the honey at night.'

  'Joe says you must tell them if there's a death in the house, and tie apiece of crape on the hive, or they'll all fly away.'

  'Well, I don't quite hold with all folks say about them, but they arestrange creatures, with queer ways of their own. They seem quiet justnow, so I think I might leave them for a few minutes. I have a pot ofhoney I should like to send to your aunt, miss, if you would kindly takeit to her. I'll go inside and fetch it. No, Willie, my pretty, you can'tcome. Granny's going up the ladder into the loft.'

  'I'll take care of him. Come with me, Willie dear--come and see thepretty flowers.'

  And Peggy seized the stolid infant by his disengaged hand.

  Willie did not look enthusiastic about the attractions of the flowers,but he allowed himself to be led away, staring at his new guardian withround eyes of solemn distrust, and solacing himself with his thumb.

  'We'll build a little house,' said Peggy, anxious to prevent thesuspicious twitching of her charge's mouth from developing into a roar,and taking up some bricks and loose stones which lay under the wall.'See, we'll make a kitchen and parlour, and put down leaves for acarpet. Here's a little round stone for a table, and the pansy-flowerswill do for dollies. They've such funny little faces. We'll make themskirts out of laurel leaves, and put them to bed in the corner.'

  Peggy's well-meant efforts at entertainment were suddenly interrupted bya loud sniff from the other side of the wall, and, looking up, she sawthe round, reproachful face of Polly Smith, a girl of about her own age,who sometimes came up to the Abbey to help Nancy at busy times.

  'Why, it's you, miss, I do declare!' exclaimed Polly. 'And makingplay-houses in Mrs. Davis's garden on Sunday, too! I _am_ surprised!_I've_ been to Sunday-school!'

  Peggy felt rather caught, but she carried it off as well as she could.

  'I was only amusing Willie,' she said. 'He was going to cry becauseGranny Davis went indoors and left him.'

  'Ay, she's been sittin' swarmin' her bees all day. I see her when I wasgoin' to chapel, and I see her again when I come back, and when I goesto Sunday-school she were still there. My dada says he don't hold withfolks as can't keep the Sabbath holy.'

  And Polly turned up her small nose in a distinctly aggravating manner.

  'How did you get on at Sunday-school?' asked Peggy, who did not likeinsinuations against the moral worth of her dear Mrs. Davis.

  'Splendid, miss. I always does. Teacher gave me a prize for sayin'hymns--such a nice book. Wouldn't you like to look at it?'

  'Are you sure it's a Sunday book?' inquired Peggy, who could not forbearher revenge.

  'Oh yes, for I looked at the end chapter, and she dies beautiful, andthey plant snowdrops on her grave; and her big brother, what's so unkindto her, gets drowned through goin' boatin' on Sunday,' replied Polly,regarding Peggy as if she thought her courses might lead her to asimilar watery fate.

  'Here's Granny!' cried Willie, abandoning his thumb to seek theprotection of the friendly linsey-woolsey petticoat.

  'Ay, so it be. _My_ granny sits in the parlour on Sunday afternoons,with her blinds drawn down, and reads her Bible. She's a godly oldwoman, she is!'

  And Polly took her departure with a conscious sniff, as if deploring thedepravity of her neighbours.

  Peggy was very much upset.

  'Is it really wrong to look after the bees and amuse babies on Sunday?'she asked Father afterwards.

  'No, dear, certainly not. The Pharisees came to our Lord with just sucha question, and you know He answered them that it was right to do wellon the Sabbath. God did not mean it to be a day of misery, but aspecially joyful and happy day, in which we were to think a good dealabout Him. Sometimes we can show our love for Him quite as well byhelping others as by reading our Bibles or going to church, though weshould not neglect that either. As for shutting ourselves up on Sundays,and thinking it is wrong to look at the beautiful things around us, thatis mere ignorance, for Nature is like a wonderful book, written by God'shand, and the birds and the bees and the flowers are all pages out of itfor those who have eyes to read them rightly.'

  Peggy thought of this as she sat among the ruins watching the sunsetthat night. The sky, flaming in bands of crimson, violet and orange,looked like the very gate of heaven, a golden city which you had only tocross the hills to reach--surely another page in that book of whichFather had spoken.

  'It's like one of the pictures in the Interpreter's house in the"Pilgrim's Progress,"' she said to herself; 'or Christian and Hopeful onthe Delectable Mountains, when they looked through the glass, andthought they saw "something like the gate, and also some of the glory ofthe place."'

  She stayed a long, long time among the crumbling old walls, watching thegold fade gradually out of the sky. It was very still and peaceful inthere, and she liked to sit and think how the Abbey must have looked inthose strange, bygone days when the little steps had led to a dormitory,and the broken pillars had held up the roof of a church, whose tinklingbell had rung out at sunset, calling to prayer those old monks who sleptso quietly in their forgotten graves.

  An owl began to hoot in the woods beyond the river, a great stag-beetlecame droning by, and the bats flew over her head with their shrilllittle cry, flitting here and there like night swallows.

  Peggy got up and brushed the dew from her dress, and walked slowly backto the house in the gathering twilight. In the Rose Parlour Aunt Helensat turning out her little writing-desk, and wiping suspicious dropsfrom her eyes.

  'Don't keep old letters, child,' she said, as Peggy crept up to her withsilent sympathy. 'It opens so many wounds to re-read the tender words ofthose who are estranged or gone away from us, and all the hopes andexpectations that have come to nothing.'

  'Don't read them, Auntie. Let's tear them up and burn them, if they makeyou cry.'

  'No, no; I can't bear to part with them, after all! We'll lock them upin the desk again. But, Peggy, take my advice, and if you quarrel withanyone, go and fight it out at once, and get it over, and don't letmisunderstandings make the breach so wide that nothing can ever mend itagain.'