Short Fiction · Trooping with Crows (2/5) (1/2)

I

In the Nest

Buried among the Welsh mountains it was⁠—an old grey stone two-storied house, running into towers, and odd gables, and queer old-fashioned outbuildings with three-cornered windows and five-cornered doors. “The Eyrie” it was called in the liquid unpronounceable language of the district, and it seemed a not inappropriate title when looked at from the low-lying glen at the foot of the brown rugged mountains which shut in this quiet little homestead. For a homestead it was in every sense of the word; one need but cross the somewhat weedy lawn, where wild birds of all sorts and sizes, and squirrels also, loved to congregate, and enter the drawing-room by one of the long narrow French windows, to find tokens of comfort and refinement and a lady’s ruling hand in every nook and corner. An Erard’s grand piano, a harp, an easel in a good northern light, a sculptured group in pure marble, and a delicately-painted medallion on the walls, were the first things that met the eye. But hidden away in corners were greater treasures still: old and priceless books in the deep shelves of the library, rare prints and engravings in the capacious portfolios, and, hanging on the walls of the large central hall, were pictures which Owen Tremarten had spent a lifetime and a fortune in tracing out and purchasing. This hall was the favourite resort of the master of the house, and here stood in a deep recess his daughter’s favourite instrument, a magnificent deep-toned organ. Hour after hour would he pass here wandering among his pictures and listening to dreamy fugue or sonata, or some wild triumphal march which would come springing from under his daughter’s slight yet firm fingers. Perhaps as he sauntered up and down in the dim twilight or golden summer’s afternoon the bright fresh maiden of eighteen would fade into the image of the girl-mother laid so many years ago in her early grave, and his own romance of love and passion would be lived through once more⁠—who can tell?

But now in this early spring morning the hall stands wide open and empty. Lettice Tremarten has too keen an appreciation of fresh air and sweet sights and sounds not to be among them when they are at their best. Besides, has she not a whole colony of friends and neighbours (feathered and otherwise) dependent upon her? There on the lawn in the very midst of them all she stands⁠—a slight tall figure with a small head crowned with a mass of curly, wavy brown hair⁠—hair which never could be reduced to order and submission, and which had a trick of defying hairpins and ribbons, and would tumble over the girl’s eyes whenever she turned up her face to meet yours, as she was rather fond of doing at times, or it would tumble the other way and hang like a thick veil over neck and shoulders as she stooped to gather the flowers for her fresh morning’s vases, or to feed the fat lazy blackbirds and robins which came trooping and twittering from all corners at her approach.

That is what they are doing at the present moment, and the lawn, kept wild and untrimmed by Miss Lettice’s own orders, “because the squirrels like something rough and tangly under their little toes,” is literally alive with life and sound. The robins have ventured the nearest to her neat little garden-boots, and in close proximity to them balances itself a lame barndoor fowl, whose broken leg Lettice herself had bound up and mended, and who was consequently a special favourite, although for laying purposes absolutely useless. Behind these cluster and flutter a varied collection of wild singing-birds, linnets, thrushes, yellowhammers, and finches. Even tomtit leaves his pecking and insect-hunting on the down-side of the sycamore, and joins the twittering throng.

Into the very midst of them dashes old Brownie, Lettice’s curly retriever, scattering the little pensioners right and left with a heavy bark, intended, no doubt, for a ponderous “good morning.” “Down, Brownie, how dare you!” scolds Lettice, placing one little foot on old Brownie’s well-furred neck to enforce obedience. Then the crumb-scattering goes on for another ten minutes or so, Lettice amusing herself by making her feathered friends fly hither and thither for her favours, and throwing the last morsel at a chattering magpie, perched on the low bough of a mountain ash, who had somehow, so she judged, through timidity or cowardice, failed to secure for himself a proper portion.

Then she turns her basket upside down.

“They won’t believe it’s all gone, Brownie,” she says, releasing the dog, “till they see it bottom upwards.” The sunlight glances and quivers through the aspens and alders which skirt the lawn; behind them babbles and tumbles a narrow running brook, while the semicircle of the mountains in the distance forms a glorious background to the picture. The barndoor fowl cackles and flutters on to Lettice’s shoulder, and is very quickly fluttered off again with a reprimand from the young lady. Brownie released disperses the tiny feathered tribe in all directions, and finally starts off in full pursuit of a mischievous-looking squirrel, who, after a few bounds and gambols, ensconces himself in safety in a tall horse-chestnut, and curls up his tail in defiance at the dog’s vain efforts to dislodge him.

Lettice’s eyes sparkle with delight⁠—some said those eyes of hers were blue, some said they were grey, some hazel; anyhow, they were large, and changeful, and brilliant⁠—her pretty little mouth breaks into all sorts of pleasant smiles, and she nods her head at the blue hills now catching wonderful lights and shadows as the sun mounts higher in the heavens.

“Oh, you dear little kids and goats up there!” she exclaims; “I’ll have some of you down here before long.”

Of course she cannot see the “dear little kids and goats,” but she knows that halfway up the mountains there is fair pasturage for them, and no doubt at this very moment they are enjoying it, and she may just as well talk to them as to any other creature.

Then for a few minutes she stands still and enjoys the freshness and beauty of the morning scene. All around her the earth seems full of sunlight and colour and song, the tangled verdure on the lawn never seemed greener nor fresher; surely the little brook never babbled so prettily before, and those delicious lilacs and violets never before gave out so lovely a perfume. She stoops to gather a few hyacinths for her waistbelt; Brownie picks up the empty basket, and stands patiently waiting for further orders. Lettice gives one upward farewell look at the blue hills, and something of sadness and longing passes over her face.

“Yes, you dear old mountains,” she says aloud, “I have known and loved you a long time, but for all that I should like to see a little of what is going on on the other side of you.”

At this moment the sound of wheels is heard on the drive running round the house, as the coachman, throwing back the stable-door, brings out the pony-phaeton for the day.

Lettice bounds forward to pat her favourite ponies and rub their “dear little noses.” An elderly gentleman comes down the front steps, followed by two elderly ladies, one tall and stout and the other tall and thin. Both are dressed in the latest London fashion.

“Lettice, I am driving your aunts into the village; will you come?” inquires the gentleman.

The tall stout lady interposes⁠—

“Not in that dress, may I beg, Lettice. Dear me! each time I pay you a visit here you seem to me to be more unsophisticated and untidy than before. Owen, Owen, that girl sadly wants pruning and training!”

Lettice flushes a little and laughs a little.

“I hadn’t the least intention of going into the village this morning, Aunt Rosamond,” she replies; “I have so very much to do.”

The tall thin lady, who is emotional in temperament and active in disposition, begins now.

“I suppose ‘so very much to do,’ Lettice, means dawdling about the whole morning with a paintbrush in your hand and spoiling two or three sheets of good cardboard.” Then as the fresh spring breeze catches Lettice’s brown hair, and the aforesaid brown hair, in response to a somewhat impatient toss of the head from the young girl, tumbles en masse to her waist, the lady exclaims, “I wonder⁠—I wonder what would they say to you in a London drawing-room!”

Lettice finishes rubbing the pony’s nose.

“Dear old Fiddle!” she says, giving him a farewell pat. She goes to the other pony and repeats the operation, ending with a “Dear old Falstaff!” Then she looks up at her aunts. “Aunt Judith! Aunt Rosamond!” she exclaims, “I wish, instead of scolding me so much, you would take me back to London with you, and prune and train me there.” Here a start of surprise from papa. Lettice turns on him. “Yes, papa dear, I would really like to go up just for one short season and see what they would say to me in a London drawing-room. I wouldn’t stay a day after, and then I’d come back and settle down here forever and ever.”

Papa touches up Fiddle and Falstaff impatiently with his whip.

“Go in, pussy,” he says, “and don’t talk nonsense.”

Lettice throws him a kiss and a bright smile. Aunt Rosamond begins sotto voce, but has to raise her voice above the crunching of the wheels on the gravel and the ring of the ponies’ hoofs, and Lettice hears her say distinctly, “The child is quite right, Owen. It is your duty to give her a season in London⁠—it is high time⁠—” But the rest of the sentence is lost to her as the phaeton whirls into the flinty high road.

And Lettice stands silent and pensive in front of the long drawing-room windows. Shall she go in and have a quiet morning’s sketching, or bend her back over her embroidery frame, or wander away with Brownie to the clear lake into which falls the little babbling brook, and give him a good half-hour’s splashing and washing, or shall she⁠—But here her speculations and plannings are suddenly brought to a close by a quaintly-dressed stooping old figure with a basket of tools, who comes up from a side walk and salutes her with a respectful “Good morning, Miss Lettice, and what orders for the day, if you please?”

Lettice looks up vexed at having her meditations interrupted. “Oh, Roberts!” she exclaims, recognising the head gardener. “Orders? Oh, dear, no! I never give any when you startle me in this way⁠—just when I am so busy thinking.” The old man begins to apologise. “No, don’t do that, only don’t bother me again.” The old man touches his hat and turns to go away. “Oh, stay, Roberts, I forgot,” exclaims the young lady. “I have one very particular order to give. There is a quantity of chickweed and groundsel growing up in the violet-beds. On no account have it weeded out⁠—not the least morsel of it⁠—my canaries are quite pining for some. Now don’t grumble, Roberts, but go away as fast as you can, and leave me to finish my thinking.”

Her “thinking,” however, seems doomed not to be finished this morning, for she hears the iron gate leading from the high road swing back and a firm quick footstep on the gravel.

What is the matter with Brownie’s collar that at this particular moment Lettice must stoop down and adjust it so carefully with both hands? Brownie wags his tail gratefully, still keeping firm hold of his mistress’s basket. A kind frank voice at Lettice’s side wishes her “Good morning” and extends a hand towards her. Lettice looking up, and returning the “Good morning” in somewhat demure tones, sees a tall well-made young man of about eight-and-twenty or thirty⁠—a man with no particular beauty in face or figure, as plainly as words can speak, “I am doing my duty honestly and well, and there is nothing in this world worth the trouble of a lie.”

Lettice does not take the offered hand; she is still (on her knees now) busy manipulating Brownie’s collar.

“Brownie’s curls are too long, Dr. Herron,” she begins apologetically; “they almost hide his new collar; I think I must cut them off; he is looking quite effeminate.”

“Can I be of any service, Miss Tremarten?” asks the doctor, entering into the spirit of the thing, and he too goes down on his knees and commences fumbling about Brownie’s curls, and then somehow their eyes meet, and Lettice’s flash and then droop, and then somehow their hands get very close together, and then Lettice jumps up flushing and shy and yet intent on fun.

“Dr. Herron,” she begins, “I have such glorious news to tell you⁠—I mean I would have told you if everyone hadn’t been out and if you could have come into the house for half-an-hour’s chat.”

“This is the very place for glorious news,” says the doctor brightly, looking round at the pretty garden scene and the lovely mountain picture beyond, and then letting his gaze rest upon the sweet dimpling face in front of him.

“Oh, I can’t stay out here a moment longer,” exclaims Lettice, “I have such a world of things waiting for me indoors, so the good news must keep for another time,” and she makes a little movement towards the house.

“And I too,” says the doctor, again rising to the occasion, “have a world of things waiting for me⁠—not indoors but out⁠—and can only give you three minutes, Miss Tremarten, to hand over your list of sick poor people to be seen after, for I’m off for a long ride.”

Lettice is piqued, and determines to take good aim this time. “Oh, I can’t think about the poor people this morning,” she says, again adjusting Brownie’s collar; “they must find someone else to look after them now, for I’m going back with Aunt Rosamond to London for the season.”

“To London!” echoes the doctor in blank amazement, and Lettice, with her hair rippling over her eyes, enjoys his surprise. “To London, Miss Tremarten! Do you really mean to tell me that your father has given his consent to your going?”

“Oh no,” replies Lettice blithely, “no one has given any consent at present, for,” she adds slyly, “it hasn’t been asked; but of course I am going, because I have arranged it all in my own mind, and whatever I arrange always does happen.”

Dr. Herron stands a long three minutes silent and thoughtful. Lettice, intolerant of silence and thought in other people, however much she may like to indulge in both herself, commences a long lecture to Brownie on the “disgraceful manner in which he has conducted himself towards the rabbits and squirrels of late.” Brownie, all respect and submission, elevates one ear and lowers the other as the discourse goes on.

“Miss Tremarten,” says the doctor at length, drawing a full breath, “will you put aside fun for a little while and let me have a quiet five minutes’ talk with you? I have sometimes thought that such a contingency as this might arise, but certainly was not prepared to meet it so soon.”

“I can’t stay another minute,” interrupts Lettice positively. “Are you coming in for a game of chess with papa tonight? Goodbye,” and she holds out her hand.

The doctor takes the hand and keeps it.

“Lettice,” he exclaims, “you know perfectly well what I have to say to you.”

Lettice looks down demurely.

“I haven’t the slightest idea, Dr. Herron⁠—”

“Now, do you mean to tell me,” he says in low earnest tones, and still retaining his hold on her hand, “that you have forgotten all about the letter I sent to you a short time ago, and which you have never condescended to answer?”

Lettice is flushing and nervous now, but still puts a brave face on the matter.

“Oh no, I”⁠—with marked emphasis⁠—“haven’t forgotten it, but I thought you had.”

“What could make you imagine such a thing?” asks the doctor in downright sober earnest.

“Because,” and here by a dexterous movement she releases her hand, “you never spoke about it after you had sent it, and I naturally thought you had forgotten it.”

Dr. Herron bites his lip to keep back his own smiles now.

“Will you never give over fun and teasing, Lettice?” he says. “But now you can answer me⁠—one little word will do,” and again somehow he gets possession of the hand, and his face is very close to hers.