CHAPTER THREE.
AT UNCLE DAN'S SMITHY.
The royal baby for whose benefit Muriel and Agnes had been engaged didnot live long; but he was succeeded by his brother Prince William, andbefore he was old enough to do without nurses, a little Princess cameupon the scene. She was the last of the family, and she lived threeyears and a half. After her death, the services of the nurses were nolonger needed. Queen Eleanor dismissed them with liberal wages andhandsome presents, and the two who were left--Agnes and Avice--determined to go back to Lincoln. Avice was now a young woman oftwenty.
But when they reached their old home, they found many changes. The goodBishop Grosteste was gone, but his chaplain, Father Thomas, had lookedafter their interests, and Agnes found no difficulty in recovering herlittle property. Happily for them, their tenants were anxious to leavethe house, and before many days were over, they had slipped quietly backinto the old place.
There were no banks in those days. A man's savings bank was an oldstocking or a tin mug. Agnes disposed of the money she had left fromthe Queen's payment, partly in the purchase of a cow, and partly in astocking, which was carefully locked up in the oak chest. They couldlive very comfortably on the produce of the cow and the garden, aided bywhat small sums they might earn in one way and another. And so theyears went on, until Avice in her turn married and was left a widow; butshe had no child, and when her mother died Avice was left alone.
"I can never do to live alone," she said to herself; "I must havesomebody to love and work for."
And she began to think whom she could find to live with her. As she satand span in the twilight, one name after another occurred to her mind,but only to be all declined with thanks.
There was her neighbour next door, Annora Goldhue: she had threedaughters. No, none of them would do. Joan was idle, and Amy wasconceited, and Frethesancia had a temper. Little Roese might have done,who lived with old Serena at the mill end; but old Serena could notspare her. At last, as Avice broke her thread for the fourth time, shepushed back the stool on which she was sitting, and rose with herdetermination taken, and spoke it out--
"I will go and see Aunt Filomena."
Aunt Filomena lived about a mile from Lincoln, on the Newport road. Herhusband was a greensmith: that is to say, he worked in copper, andhawked his goods in the town when made. Avice lost no time in going,but set out at once.
As she rounded the last turn in the lane, she heard the ring of DanielGreensmith's hammer on the anvil, and a few minutes' more walkingbrought her in sight of the smith himself, who laid down his hammer andshaded his eyes to see who was coming.
"Why, Uncle Dan, don't you know me?" said Avice.
"Nay, who is to know thee, when thou comes so seldom?" said old Dan,wiping his hot face with his apron. "Art thou come to see me or mydame?"
"I want to see Aunt Filomena. Is she in, Uncle Dan?"
"She's in, unless she's out," said Dan unanswerably. "And her tongue'sin, too. It's at home, _that_ is. Was this morning, anyhow. What dostthou want of her?"
"Well," said Avice, hesitating, "I want her advice--"
"Then thou wants what thou'lt get plenty of," said Dan, with a comicaltwist of his mouth, as he turned over some long nails to find a suitableone. "I'll be fain if thou'lt cart away a middling lot, for there'smore coming my way than I've occasion for at this present."
Avice laughed. "I daresay Aunt is overworked a bit," she said."Perhaps I can help her, Uncle Dan. Folks are apt to lose their temperswhen they are tired."
"Some folks are apt to lose 'em whether they are tired or not," said thesmith, with a shake of his grizzled head. "I've got six lasses, andfour on 'em takes after her. I could manage one, and maybe I mighttackle two; but when five on 'em gets a-top of a chap, why, he's downafore he knows it. I'm a peaceable man enough if they'd take mepeaceable. But them five rattling tongues, that gallops faster than SirOtho's charger up to the Manor--eh, I tell thee what, Avice, they dowear a man out!"
"Poor Uncle Dan! I should think they do. But are all the girls athome? I thought Mildred and Emma were to be bound apprentices inLincoln."
"Fell through wi' Mildred," said the smith. "Didn't offer good enough;and She"--by which pronoun he usually designated his vixenishwife--"wouldn't hear on it. Emma's bound, worse luck! I could ha' donewi' Emma. She and Bertha's the only ones as can be peaceable, like me."
"Mildred's still at home, then?"
"Mildred's at home yet. And so's El'nor, and so's Susanna, and so'sAnkaret; and every one on 'em's tongue's worse nor t'other. And"--avery heavy sigh--"so's She!"
Avice knew that Uncle Dan was usually a man of fewer words than this.For him to be thus loquacious showed very strong emotion or irritationof some sort. She went round to the back door, and before she reachedit, she heard enough to let her guess the sort of welcome she mightexpect to receive.
Just inside the open door stood Aunt Filomena, a thin, red-faced,voluble woman, with her arms akimbo, pouring out words as fast as theycould come; and in the yard, just outside the door, opposite to her,stood her daughter Ankaret, in exactly the same attitude, also thin,red-faced, and voluble. The two were such precise counterparts of oneanother that Avice had hard work to keep her gravity. Inside the house,Susanna and Mildred, and outside Eleanor, were acting as interestedspectators; the funniest part of the scene being that neither of themlistened to a word said by the other, but each ran at express speed onher own rails. The youngest daughter, Bertha, was nowhere to be seen.
For a minute the whole appearance of things struck Avice as soexcessively comical that she could scarcely help laughing. But then sherealised how shocking it really was. What sort of mothers, in theirturn, could such daughters be expected to make? She waited for amoment's pause, and when it occurred, which was not for some minutes,she said--
"Aunt Filomena!"
"Oh, you're there, are you?" demanded the amiable Filomena. "You justthank the stars you've got no children! If ever an honest woman wereplagued with six good-for-nothing, sluttish, slatternly shrews of girlsas me! Here's that Ankaret--I've told her ten times o'er to wash thetubs out, and get 'em ready for the pickling, and I come to see if theyare done, and they've never been touched, and my lady sitting upstairsa-making her gown fine for Sunday! I declare, I'll--"
Her intentions were drowned in an equally shrill scream from MissAnkaret. "You never told me a word--not once! And 'tain't my place toscour them tubs out, neither. It's Susanna as always--"
"Then I won't!" broke in Susanna. "And you might be ashamed ofyourself, I should think, to put such messy work on me when Eleanor--"
"You'd best let me alone!" fiercely chimed in Eleanor.
"Oh dear, dear!" cried Avice, putting her hands over her ears. "My dearcousins, are you going to drive each other deaf? Why, I would ratherscour out twenty tubs than fight over them like this! Are you notChristian women? Come, now, who is going to scour the tubs? I willtake one myself if you will do the others. Who will join me?"
And Avice began to turn up her sleeves in good earnest. "No, Avice,don't you; you'll spoil your gown," said Eleanor, looking ashamed of hervehemence. "See, I'll get them done. Mildred, won't you help?"
"Well, I don't mind if I do," was the rather lazy answer.
But Ankaret and Susanna declined to touch the work, the latter cynicallyoffering to lend her apron to Avice.
As Avice scrubbed away, she began to regret her errand. To be afflictedwith such a lifelong companion as one of these lively young ladies wouldbe far worse than solitude. But where was the youngest?--the quietlittle Bertha, who took after her peaceable father, and whom Avice hadrarely heard to speak? She asked Eleanor for her youngest sister.
"Oh, she's somewhere," said Eleanor carelessly.
"She took her work down to the brook," added Mildred. "She's beencrying her eyes out over Emma's going."
"Ay, Emma and Bertha are the white chicks among the black," saidEleanor, laughing; "they'll
miss each other finely, I've no doubt."
Avice finished her work, returned Susanna's apron, and instead ofrequesting advice from her Aunt, went down to the brook in search ofBertha. She found her sitting on a green bank, with very red eyes.
"Well, my dear heart?" said Avice kindly to Bertha.
The kind tone brought poor Bertha's tears back. She could only sobout--"Emma's gone!"
"And thou art all alone, my child," said Avice, stroking her hair. Sheknew that loneliness in a crowd is the worst loneliness of all. "Well,so am I; and mine errand this very day was to see if I could prevail onthy mother to grant me one of her young maids to dwell with me. Whatsayest thou? shall I ask her for thee?"
"O Cousin! I would be so--" Bertha's ecstatic tone went no farther. Itwas in quite a different voice that she said--"But then there's Father!Oh no, Cousin. Thank you so much, but it won't do."
"That will we ask Father," said Avice.
"Father couldn't get on, with me and Emma both away," said Bertha, in atone which she tried to make cheerful. "He'd be quite lost--I know hewould."
"Well, but--" began Avice.
"Then he'd find his self again as fast as he could," said a gruff voice,and they looked up in surprise to see old Dan standing behind them."Thou's done well, lass. Thou's ta'en advice o' thy own kind heart, andnot o' other folks. Thee take the little maid to thee, and I'll seethee safe out on't. She'll be better off a deal wi' thee, and she cansee our Emma every day then. So dry thy eyes, little un; it'll be allright, thou sees."
"But, Father, you'll not do without me!"
"Don't thee be conceited, lass." Old Dan was trying hard to swallow alump in his throat. "I'll see thee by nows and thens. Thou'll be adeal better off. And there's--there's El'nor."
"Eleanor's not _always_ in a good temper," said Bertha doubtfully.
"She's best o' t'other lot," said old Dan. "She's none so bad, by nowsand thens. I shall do rarely, thou'll see. But, Avice--dost thou thinkthou could just creep off like at th' lee-side o' th' house, wi' thelittle maid, afore She sees thee? When thou'rt gone I'll tell her, andthen I'll have a run for't till it's o'er. She's better to take whenfirst comings-off is done. She'll smooth down i' th' even, as like asnot, and then I'll send El'nor o'er wi' the little maid's bits o' gear.Or, if she willn't go, I can bring 'em myself, when work's done. Let'sget it o'er afore She finds aught out!"
Avice scarcely knew whether to laugh or to be sorry. Poor, weak,easy-tempered Dan! They took his advice, and crept round by thelee-side of the house, under cover of the hedge. When they were out ofsight, with a belt of trees between, old Dan took leave of them.
"Thou'll be good to the little maid, Avice," said he. "I know thouwill, or I'd never ha' let her go. But she'll be better off--ay, a dealbetter off, she'll be. She gets put upon, she does. And beingyoungest, thou sees--I say, my lass, thou'd best call her aunt. She'sso much elder than thee; it'll sound better nor cousin."
"Very good, Father," said Bertha. "But, O Father! who'll stitch yourbuttons on, and comb your hair when you rest after work, and sing toyou? O Father, let me go back!"
"Tut, tut, lass!" said old Dan, clearing his throat energetically. "Ifone wife and four daughters cannot keep a man's buttons on, there'ssomewhat wanting somewhere. I shall miss thy singing, I dare say; but Ican come down, thou knows, of a holy-day even, to hear thee. And as tocombin'--stars knows I shall get enough o' that, and a bit o'er that Ican spare for old Christopher next door. He's got no wife, and only onelass, and she's a peaceable un. He's a deal to be thankful for. Now,God be wi' ye both. Keep a good heart, and step out. I'll let ye get abit on afore I tell Her. And then I'll run for't!"
Avice and Bertha "stepped out" accordingly; and as nobody came afterthem, they concluded that things were tolerably smooth. They did notsee anybody from the smithy until two days later; and then, rather latein the evening--namely, about six o'clock--Dan himself made hisappearance, with one bundle slung on a stick over his shoulder, andanother carried like a baby.
"Well!" said he, as he sat down on the settle, and wiped his hot facewith his apron. "Well!"
"O Father, I'm so glad!" said Bertha. "Are those my things? How goodof you to bring them!"
"Ay, they be," said Dan emphatically. "Take 'em and make the best thoucan of 'em; for thou'll get no more where they came from, I can tellthee."
"Was Aunt Filomena very much put out?" asked Avice, in a rather penitenttone.
"She wasn't put out o' nothing," answered Dan, "except conduct becominga Christian woman. She was turned into a wild dragon, all o'er clawsand teeth, and there was three little dragons behind her, and they wasall a-top o' me together. If El'nor hadn't thought better on't, andcome and stood by me, there wouldn't have been much o' me to bring thesehere."
"Then you did not run, Uncle Dan?" replied Avice.
"She clutched me, lass!" responded Dan, with awful solemnity. "Andt'others, they had me too. Thee try to run with a wild dragon holdingon to thy hair, and three more to thy arms and legs--just do! I wonderI'm not tore to bits--I do. Howsome'er, here I be; and I just wish Icould stop. Ay, I do so!"
And Dan's apron took another journey round his face.
"Uncle Dan, would you like to take Bertha back?" was Avice'sself-sacrificing suggestion.
"Don't name it!" cried Dan, dropping the apron. "Don't name it! Therewouldn't be an inch on her left by morning light! I wonder there's anyo' me. Eh, but this world is a queer un. Is she a good lass, Avice?"
"Yes, indeed she is," said Avice.
"I'm fain to hear it; and I'm fain thou's fallen on thy feet, my littleun. And, Avice--if thou knows of any young man as wants to gosoldiering, and loves a fray, just thee send him o'er to th' smithy, andhe shall ha' the pick o' th' dragons. I hope he'll choose Ankaret.He'll get my blessing!"
Aunt Filomena seemed to have washed her hands of her youngest daughter.She never came near them; and Avice thought it the better part of valourto keep away from the smithy. When Emma had a holiday, which was a raretreat, she often spent it with her sister; and on still rarer occasionsEleanor paid a short visit. But the only frequent visitor was old UncleDan, and he came whenever he could, and always seemed sorry to go home.