The Old Pincushion; or, Aunt Clotilda's Guests

And this she would say, though her own heart was sad. She feared she would have to leave Miss Clotilda, and it was hard to think of going to work among strangers at her age. But she was a truly good and faithful-hearted old woman. She believed that, as she said, no one really anxious to do right will ever be left for long at a loss.

Many a night had Martha lain awake, thinking about the lost will. She turned over in her head every possible, or impossible, place in which Mrs. Wynne could have hidden it. More than once, indeed, she had got up in the dark, and lighted a candle to go peeping into some cupboard or drawer which it had struck her had not been thoroughly turned out. But all in vain. And now she, too, like Miss Clotilda herself and the rest of the world, had begun to think all hope was over.

She was very delighted when the boy Neville's first letter came, for of course she was at once told of its contents. And she saw that it brought a light to Miss Clotilda's eyes, and a colour to her cheeks, that had not been there since Mrs. Wynne's death.

[Illustration: 'THERE'S YOUR WORK FOR YOU, SO TO SPEAK, MISS.']

'There now, missy dear,' said the old servant, for Clotilda, whom she had known for more than thirty years, still seemed a child to her sometimes, 'didn't I tell you it would be shown you what to do? There's that dear little girl, by her brother's account--and an uncommon well-thinking young gentleman he must be--sorely in need of a mother's care; and who could do so well instead of a mother as her own aunt, I'd like to know? There's your work for you, so to speak, miss.'

'But, Martha,' said Miss Clotilda, 'I can't have her to live with me, as Neville hints. Even if David were to give me what he pays for her now--and it would go hard with me to take it--I have no house. And I am not clever enough to teach her;' and again Miss Clotilda's face fell.

'Wait a bit, miss,' said Martha again; 'there's no telling how things may turn out yet. The first thing to do is to have the young lady and her brother for the holidays, so you'll get to know them, and they you. And maybe a way will be shown for you to have them more with you after that.'

'But, Martha,' said Clotilda again, '_can_ I have them with me even for the holidays? I've so very little money left. And children have good appetites, and it would be dreadful not to give them nice things and plenty.'

'We'll manage it,' said Martha. 'We've still the use of the garden, and some of the poultry's your very own, miss. And the cow is still giving milk. Mr. Wynne-Carr said nothing about that.'

'No. I think if I wrote to him about the children he would tell me I might use all there is in the place. And we don't need much, you and I, Martha--we need hardly anything that has to be bought, and I can be even more careful till my half-year's money comes,' for she had fifty pounds a year of her own, but that was all. 'If I can make the children happy these holidays, I don't care what happens afterwards,' she added brightly. 'I can always go to one or other of my old friends for a few weeks till I find some kind of situation.'

'To be sure,' Martha agreed.

So the letter was sent which we have read. And then Miss Clotilda and the old servant went into all sorts of discussions as to ways and means. Mr. Wynne-Carr was written to, and in reply he, as Martha expressed it, 'made Miss Clotilda free of the cow and the garden,' and told her to consider _all_ the poultry as hers, to eat or sell, as she preferred. That was grand. Martha disposed of several couple almost at once, and proceeded to fatten up others. And when the news of the 'Captain's children' coming to visit their aunt was told to some of the neighbours, several substantial proofs of goodwill were forthcoming. Old Thomas Evans, the principal tenant, begged Miss Clotilda to allow him to send her a forequarter of mutton every time he killed a sheep, while the young people should be with her; and Mary Jones, the village schoolmistress, humbly presented a beautiful dish of honeycomb. Old Martha was triumphant, and maintained that troubles are often blessings in disguise, as they show us good points in our neighbours which otherwise might never be suspected.

And the next day or two were much more busy and cheerful than their predecessors, though Miss Clotilda felt anxious to hear again from Neville, and in the day or two which had to pass before the boy's reply could possibly come she had time enough to worry herself with all sorts of fears and misgivings.

'It would be too disappointing if they decided they did not care to come now that we have settled all so nicely, would it not, Martha?' she kept repeating. 'I hope my letter was not too discouraging, so to say. What I said about being so poor now. I trust that will not make them afraid of coming.'

'What you said, miss, was just the plain truth--that you'd do your best for them, and give them a hearty welcome. You couldn't pretend things would be as in the old days, or as they _should_ be if the Captain had his rights. But don't worry, miss; Master Neville's a sensible young gentleman and his father's own son, or I'm much mistaken, and the little girl is just a child. It'll be all right, you'll see.'

It was, however, very provoking, that the morning Neville's letter was on its way, the very first day that there could possibly have been an answer from him, old John should have been particularly late. Twenty times that morning did Miss Clotilda open the front door, and stand gazing along the drive in hopes of perceiving the familiar figure of the old letter-carrier, and at least half as many times was Martha despatched to the cottage at the corner of the road which he _must_ pass, to make sure that he had not already done so. To tell the truth, Martha only went once, and there would have been no use in her going oftener, for she explained the matter to her namesake, Martha Price, the owner of the said cottage, and made her promise to send the old man, 'anyways,' to say so, even if there were not a letter.

But nevertheless, every time Miss Clotilda's voice was heard calling 'Martha, you might just run to the cottage,' the cunning old body called out, 'To be sure, miss, to be sure.' And when the inquiry came down the kitchen passage--'Well, Martha?'--'Not yet awhile, miss. Old John's not in sight just yet,' she would reply.

The longest lane has its turning, however, and the longest waiting comes to an end.

It was nearly one o'clock when Parry at last appeared, smiling and complacent, so that Miss Clotilda found it impossible to meet him with the scolding she felt sure he deserved. He'd have been sharper, to be sure, if he'd known the lady was in a hurry for her letter--there was but the one for the White House--another time if she'd give him a hint a day or two before, he'd see to it she wasn't kept waiting. But she had no patience to listen to his polite speeches, she seized the letter and hurried off with it to her own room to read it in private. Poor loving-hearted Miss Clotilda! Her nerves had been sadly tried of late. She really felt that if the letter were to say they were not coming after all, she might be guilty of bursting into tears, and that it would not do even for Martha to see!

It was all right, however. The first word or two reassured her.

'MY DEAR AUNT,' wrote Neville, 'Kathie and I thank you very much for your kind letter. I have not seen Kathie, but I wrote to her, and we are both sure we should like very much to come. I am very sorry about all the trouble. I am so sorry it should make you poorer too. I should like to be grown-up, and to work hard to help papa and mamma and my sisters and you. It will not make us unhappy to see the place. We shall like to see it. Please write to Mr. Fanshaw and Miss Eccles. Kathie's holidays begin in three weeks, and I could come then too. I am sure we should be all right to come third-class. A boy here, whose people are very rich, goes third with his sister, because his father says it's better than second. Mr. Fanshaw can find the trains if you'll fix the day.--Your affectionate nephew,

'NEVILLE W. POWYS.'

Again Miss Clotilda's voice sounded along the kitchen passage.

'It's all right, Martha,' it said joyfully. 'The dear children are coming. I think I'll just slip on my bonnet and run up to Mr. Parry's' (_this_ Mr. Parry was the vicar), 'and see if he's got a--a clergy list--oh, dear me! what am I saying? I mean a railway-guide, and then if I mark down the best train I can write at once to Miss Eccles and to Mr. Fanshaw. It will save them all trouble, and of course I must choose a train which will arrive in good time at Frewern Bay, on account of the long drive, you see, Martha.'

'To be sure, miss, to be sure,' Martha agreed. 'But you'll have some luncheon first, miss. They'll be at theirs at the vicarage.'

'Very well, Martha,' said Miss Clotilda submissively. She felt far too excited to eat, but still she did not want to delay Martha's own dinner. The calling this mid-day repast 'luncheon' was a pious fiction, for, for many years past, even in the so-called 'old days,' it had been the real dinner. Mrs. Wynne had been too delicate to take a substantial meal late in the day, and now, alas! there were serious reasons why Miss Clotilda should be content with but one such. And with her present economical intention, I am afraid even her luncheon was not a luxurious meal. But the thought of the little visitors for whom they were made sweetened and cheered her self-sacrifices.

'I've been thinking, miss,' said Martha, as she waited upon her mistress, 'that if I was a little saving with the milk this week or two, we might get a pound or so of butter to sell at the market with the chickens next week. I've spoke to widow Jones about it, and she'll be pleased to sell whatever we like with hers.'

'A very good idea,' said Miss Clotilda approvingly. 'Of course, it's nonsense for me and you to use all the milk. For my part, I don't care about cream in my tea at all. I meant to have told you so. Nor do I care about butter--just now, in the hot weather too. You may save all the milk you can for churning, as far as I'm concerned, only don't stint yourself, Martha, mind.'

Martha murmured something like 'No fear of that.'

But all the same it was scanty milk and no butter that fell to the share of the old servant's tea. Miss Clotilda, too, was satisfied that she herself was practising the utmost economy, though more than once she remarked to Martha that the red cow's milk seemed nicer than ever. 'In my tea I should really not tell it from cream.'

And silly little Kathie all this time never thought and seldom spoke of her aunt except as 'that stupid old maid,' and thought herself, I rather suspect, very condescending for having made up her mind to spend the holidays at the White House.

CHAPTER V.

A GRAVE PREDICAMENT.

[Illustration: Decorative I]

t was a hot, close morning in July when Neville and Kathleen found themselves at Paddington, waiting to start by the ten o'clock train for Frewern Bay. They had rather a long journey before them, longer than it need have been in one sense, for they could not travel by the express as they were to go third-class. It had been decided by all the authorities concerned that as little as possible must be spent upon the railway fares, for there had not, of course, been time to write to Captain Powys, and have his instructions.

Up to the last there had been some uncertainty as to the day of their going. Miss Clotilda had named Wednesday or Thursday in her last letter, saying that if she did not hear to the contrary she would not expect them till Thursday, and would arrange to meet them that day at Frewern Bay. But late on Monday evening came a note from Neville to ask if Kathie could be ready for Wednesday. Mr. Fanshaw, who was to see them off, had an unexpected engagement on Thursday, and if Wednesday would not do, their leaving must be delayed till Friday. But this would not at all have suited Kathleen. She was eager to be off, and even twenty-four hours more at school seemed intolerable to her. And to Miss Eccles, one day or the other, provided Miss Fraser could guarantee the young lady's packing being completed in time, was the same. Miss Fraser, to tell the truth, was quite as eager to get rid of Kathie as Kathie was pleased to say good-bye to her. Poor Miss Fraser! her sharp face had looked a little more amiable of late, and her voice had had a softer ring. She had the prospect of a holiday at last, after two years' incessant work, for so many of the girls were this year disposed of among their various relations that Miss Eccles had given up the usual visit to Bognor, and the young governess was in consequence to have three weeks to herself. And Philippa Harley was to travel down to Cheltenham this same Thursday under Miss Fraser's convoy.

'Of course I can be ready for Wednesday!' Kathleen exclaimed, when she read Neville's note. 'Wait till Friday, indeed! And you leaving on Thursday, Phil. I should die of dulness before Friday morning.'

'It'll be rather horrid for me on Wednesday,' said Philippa. 'I wish we had been going the same day, as it was settled.'

'Oh, poor Phil,' said Kathleen, ashamed of her thoughtlessness. 'I quite forgot. Never mind, dear; you are so good, you know. You wouldn't have liked to think of me alone here all Thursday.'

And Philippa's impending tears were thus warded off.

Thoughtful Neville had enclosed a note, ready addressed and stamped, for Kathie to post at once to Miss Clotilda if Wednesday was decided upon. She was also to let him know at once, which she did.

[Illustration]

So on Wednesday morning a four-wheeler with some luggage on the top drew up at Miss Eccles' door, and Neville jumped out. Kathleen was ready, of course; she had been ready for half an hour at least. There was nothing more to do except to give Philippa a last hug for the twentieth time, and to tell her not to cry, and to be sure, quite sure, to write.

'And, Kathie, don't, _promise_ me you won't, give up looking for the will,' whispered Philippa at the very last moment. 'Oh, how I wish I were going with you! How I would hunt!'

'I won't forget, I promise you,' Kathie replied. 'But don't fancy there's any chance of it, Phil. There isn't, I'm afraid, and you'd only be disappointed. But I'll write to you, darling, I promise you.'

The first part of the journey was performed to the children's entire satisfaction, for they had the carriage to themselves.

'After all,' said Kathie, 'third-class isn't so bad, is it, Neville? And I'm sure papa and mamma will think it _awfully_ good of us to have saved the money.'

'I don't know that they will,' said Neville. 'They will think it sensible--as we're going to be poor it's best to get accustomed to it. But besides that, if we hadn't come third, we couldn't have come at all.'

Kathleen sat silent for a minute or two.

'Do you really think we are going to be poor always, Neville?' she said. 'Do you think there's no chance of the will ever being found?'

Neville shook his head.

'I don't believe there's the least,' he said. 'I'm sure Aunt Clotilda has looked everywhere.'

Kathleen sighed.

'It does seem too bad,' she said. 'Things don't often happen like that--in that story-book sort of way. I don't see why it should have come to us.'

'I don't see why it should have come to poor papa and mamma--staying out there in India just to get money for us when they'd gladly be at home, or to poor Aunt Clotil'--

'Oh, bother Aunt Clotilda!' said Kathleen impatiently. 'You'll really make me dislike her, Neville, if you keep on pestering so about her. I'm much more sorry for ourselves than for her--she's an old maid, and I don't suppose _she_ was forced to travel third-class when she was a little girl.'

'A minute or two ago you thought third-class was very comfortable,' said Neville. 'You change about so, Kathie. I don't understand you.'

Kathleen did not always quite understand herself. She looked about eagerly as if in search of an excuse for her bad temper.

'I'm hot,' she said, 'and--yes--I'm almost sure I'm rather hungry. I didn't eat much breakfast, Neville, I was in such a fuss.'

Neville opened the little basket in which their provisions were packed. Miss Eccles--or Miss Fraser rather--had contented herself with some rather thick sandwiches made of cold beef, and a few Albert biscuits. But kind Mrs. Fanshaw had given Neville a little parcel of toast sandwiches--toast and egg--which are much nicer for children and don't get nearly so dry in hot weather as meat ones; and besides this, she had given him some slices of home-made plum-cake and a few grapes and a little bottle of lemonade, not too sweet--so there was really quite a nice little railway dinner. And when Neville had spread it all out, Kathleen's spirits got up again, and she did full justice to Mrs. Fanshaw's good things.

After this refreshment they both got out their books and began to read, but before they had read very long Kathie's head gave a great bump, and half opening her eyes she discovered she had been asleep. So she shut up her book and propped her head against the corner as well as she could, and settled herself for a little nap, for by a glance at the opposite corner she had seen that this was what Neville had done.

They slept comfortably enough for an hour or more, and very likely, taking into account the sultry weather, they would have slept on still longer had they not been awakened by the train stopping and some one--or more than one--getting in.

'What a bore!' said Kathie to herself. 'Dear me, the carriage will be quite full,' and in they continued to come. Two women with big baskets, another with two babies, and then two oldish men, of a class above the women apparently, for the latter were evidently simple peasants, returning from market very likely, and chattering to each other in Welsh.

The sound of their queer talk made Kathie a little forget her ill temper at being disturbed; she sat up and listened, and Neville, opposite to her, did the same. But after a while they grew tired of listening to what they could not understand a word of, and they took out their books and read for half an hour or so. At the end of that time the train stopped again, and to their great relief the three women, the two babies, and the two baskets all got, or were got out, and the brother and sister were left alone with the two elderly men. When the train went on again these two began talking to each other in English, though with a curious accent, and now and then some words of what they were saying fell on the children's ears, though without catching their attention.

Suddenly, however, Kathleen heard a name and then another which made her listen more closely, and looking across at Neville, she saw that he too was on the alert. The names were those of 'Miss Wynne,' and 'Ty-Gwyn.'

'Yes,' one of the old worthies was saying to the other, 'it is a strange story. She was--was Mrs. Wynne, a good old lady, though she had her ways, but she was not one to play a trick on nobody.'

'No, surely,' said the other. 'That was what I always heard. And she was careful and exact.'

'She had not her match for that. She never forgot a promise, she never but paid all she owed, to a day. No--no--there was no carelessness about her. Why, last Christmas as ever was she came down to see my wife, who was very bad with her rheumatiz just then; couldn't stir hand nor foot, and now she's hearty enough and the poor old lady gone! Well, she came down with a present she had made for her; she was wonderful handy with her fingers, and my wife and she was very old friends. "Here, Ellen," says she, "here's a pincushion I've made for you my own self. You'll keep it, Ellen, and show to your great-grandchildren maybe, as the work of an old woman of eighty-three. It may be the last Christmas I'll be here." And that was a true word, surely.'