both aaron and loveday were very tired when, for the third time, they rose at dawn, crept out of the house, and up the cliff; and if it had not been for the excitement of seeing what their enemies had done to the vegetable bed during the night, they would probably have left their pisky work, for one morning at least. but loveday was very anxious to see if the bad piskies had done anything further when they found all the straw had been taken away from them. aaron was excited, too, but he was more sleepy, and they were both just the least bit cross as they clambered up the slippery path.
“i’m jolly glad i am not a real pisky,” he said, “to have to do this every night. i reckon folks would have to do their work theirselves if ’twas left to me.”
loveday did not answer. she felt very much the same, but she was not going to say so.
they did not sit down this time to enjoy the view, but munched their crusts as they walked. there was neither a lovely sunrise, nor a dense sea-fog—it was just an ordinary dull, grey morning; and loveday no longer felt that for the future she should always rise with the sun, and try to make every one else do the same. every now and then her thoughts would turn to her snug, comfortable little bed, though she tried hard to fix them on something else, for she felt that if she thought of it too much she should turn and run back to it, and creep in and lay her weary body out at full length between the cosy blankets, and her sleepy head on the pillow, and sleep, and sleep, and sleep—all the day through, if she could.
everything was quiet as usual when they reached the gate. by this time they had found out how to walk over the pebbled path without making much noise.
“we will try to make that place look very nice to-day,” said loveday; “i’ve brought a knife and a pair of scissors with me, and we’ll cut off all the great big straggly things, and the dead things, and ‘heave ’em to cliff’ as we did the straw.”
“that’s one of mother’s best knives,” said aaron anxiously; “you’d best not use that. you should have brought the ’taty knife, the little dumpy one she uses for peeling ’taties.”
“well, i can’t go back now to change it,” said loveday decidedly. “i must use this one. one knife isn’t very much, and they are meant to cut things with; we shan’t hurt it—besides, bessie has got more like it.”
“oh, well, do as you please,” said aaron crossly; “only there’ll be a fine row if it’s spoilt. knives”—with that superior, knowing air of his which always nettled loveday—“costs a brave bit of money.”
“of course i know that,” she snapped irritably. “i didn’t think they grew. well, i’ll use the scissors, and you can use your hands; unless you brought something yourself to cut with.”
but by this time they had reached the walled-in garden, and in their excitement to see if anything had happened they forgot their crossness. along the path they ran till they reached the bed, then stood still and looked at each other with wide eyes. the bed was covered again with straw—fresh, new straw—and over it and across it in all directions was fine cord, stretched to pegs which had been stuck firmly in the ground.
the two felt quite frightened! whoever had done it had spared no trouble in making all secure this time, but had carried out their work deliberately and beautifully. the children felt perfectly helpless.
“it is just to spite us,” whispered loveday furiously.
but aaron did not speak; he was really puzzled and alarmed. thoughts were working so fast in his brain, too, that he could not catch one and put it into words. loveday grew annoyed and half frightened by his silence.
“what do you think it is? who do you think did it? aaron, speak! are you frightened? do you think it is something that will hurt us?”
but in answer to all her eager questions, aaron only said at last:
“i dunno; i don’t like the looks on it.”
loveday was really rather alarmed, but to find aaron even more so, and without a word to encourage her, made her very cross again.
“i don’t like the looks of all that cord,” she said, “and i’m going to cut it all, just to let them see that i am not afraid of them. i am not a coward.”
poor aaron! it was a little hard on him, for he really had begun to feel a horrible dread that it might not, after all, have been piskies’ mischief that they were undoing, but some real person’s careful work, and he was just beginning to say so when they heard quick footsteps coming along the path towards them, and, looking up, saw an elderly, grey-haired man with a very white and angry face and a pair of eyes with a look in them which filled loveday’s little heart with alarm.
“it’s mr. winter!” gasped aaron.
that news did not increase loveday’s alarm; it rather lessened it, in fact, for, in the first place, she wanted very much to see this mysterious person, and, in the second place, she had always a feeling that sad people were never very angry about anything: they were too gentle, and had so much else to think about. but mr. winter soon undeceived her.
“who are you?” he cried hotly, “and what are you doing in my garden, you young ragamuffins? what are you doing, i say? is it you who have been tampering with my beds day after day, and ruining all my seeds?”
“please, sir,” began aaron, stammering and stuttering, and frightened nearly out of his wits—“please, sir, we didn’t mean no ’arm; we didn’t know——”
“what didn’t you know? you knew you had no right in here. you will know it now, at any rate, for you will just wait here until i get a policeman; then perhaps you will remember another time.”
“a policeman!”
loveday was filled with horror, and could scarcely believe her ears. a policeman to be sent for, for her, miss loveday carlyon! oh, it couldn’t be true! he couldn’t mean it! it was a mistake. but oh, if only father were here, or mother, to explain!
they were far away, though, and mr. winter was here, talking more and more angrily, and saying, “come with me, come with me, and i’ll see that you are safe till the police come!”
“i must explain to him myself,” thought loveday. “aaron isn’t any good”—which was quite true, for all aaron’s thoughts were taken up in trying not to cry. he was much too scared to speak. loveday went a little nearer the angry old man.
“please, mr. winter,” she said, but very tremblingly, “we only wanted to do something kind for you. we weren’t stealing, or doing any harm. we never touched a flower—we didn’t see one to touch, but we wouldn’t have if we had.”
mr. winter stopped in his angry words as soon as she began to speak. expecting, as he had, to hear the speech of one of the village children, loveday’s pretty, refined voice gave him a shock of surprise. he looked at her more keenly, and with some curiosity.
“kind!” he cried; “what do you mean? you wanted to be kind? why should you? and why should you come into my garden to play pranks, and then call them kindnesses? why are you up and out wandering about the country at this hour of the morning? whose children are you?”
“this is aaron lobb; his father and mother live in your cottage under the cliff; and i am loveday carlyon, dr. carlyon’s daughter. i’ve come from trelint to stay with bessie for—for my health, and one day aaron and i came up here with a message, and your garden looked so untidy, i wished the piskies would come and make it nice for you. and then we thought we would pretend to be piskies and get up very, very early, and make it all nice and tidy——”
“excuse me,” snapped the old gentleman, “my garden was not untidy.”
“oh, but please it was, dreadfully—i mean it looked so to me,” urged loveday, struggling with her sense of truth and her desire to be polite. “i mean that outside part in front of the windows where the blinds are all drawn down. that was what we meant to tidy. i thought if you saw it looking tidy, and flowers growing, you wouldn’t feel so sad. it was that untidy part that made us think of it.”
“yes, sir,” chimed in aaron nervously; “please, sir, we didn’t never mean to come in here, but—but the other was so hard, and then we looked in here, and saw all the straw littered about—it reg’lar’y covered that bed.”
“i know it did,” said mr. winter. “i had had that bed sown with seeds of a rare and delicate kind, and covered them most carefully with straw to protect them, and—and you have destroyed them all by uncovering them.”
“oh, i am sorry!” cried loveday, drawing nearer to him. “but why didn’t you put something there to say so? if we had only known, we would have put on more stuff to keep them warm.”
“but when you invaded my garden the second time, and saw that the bed had been covered again with straw, couldn’t you understand that it was done for a purpose?”
“we thought the piskies had done it,” said loveday, as though that excused everything.
“you thought what!” cried the gentleman. “you thought the piskies—! oh dear, dear! to think that such ignorance should exist in this twentieth century! it is disgraceful!” then, turning to the children: “come with me while i decide what can be done.”
loveday followed with less fear than she would have felt a few moments earlier. for one reason, mr. winter did not seem quite so angry as he had at first; for another, he had not spoken again of policemen; and, for a third reason, she was rather anxious to see what the house looked like inside.
but here she was disappointed, for mr. winter led them so quickly through the bare stone hall that they saw very little of the house, and then he showed them into a small, bare room, with a window high up out of their reach, and there left them. and as he went they heard him turn the key on them, at which they looked at each other in horror, while he walked slowly away to his own sitting-room to think; for what to do with the pair now he had them was more than he could tell. he wanted to frighten them, yet he had no thought now of sending for a policeman. in fact, he would have liked to have sent them both away with a warning, only he thought it was better that they should be kept a little longer as a punishment.
meanwhile, bessie, having got up very early to be ready for her husband on his return from his fishing, went to call aaron rather earlier than usual, and was shocked to find his bed empty and himself flown. astonished and troubled, she went to loveday’s room, and, opening the door gently, peeped in. when she found loveday’s room empty too, and the windows wide open, she grew really alarmed. she listened, but there was no sound but the voice of the sea and the gulls. the silence frightened her. where could they be? she ran to the front door, and looked out over the sands. no; no sign of them there. she searched the house and called and called, but no answer came. what could she do next? find them she must, but where? her eye fell on the sparkling sea.
“oh, not out there!” she cried, turning sick with fear.
far out she saw the boats coming in, but they could not help her or tell her anything. she turned away, unable to bear the sight; and as she did so her eye fell on the path up the cliff. a ray of comfort crept into her heart. something seemed to tell her that that path would lead her to them. of course, there was risk there, too, but not such risk.
without waiting to put on hat or shawl, poor bessie hurried up the steep path. she forced herself to look over the rugged sides every now and then, though it made her feel ill to do so, until she came at last to that spot where the children had thrown the straw over the day before. but when she came to that she turned away, faint and full of horror.
“i can’t look,” she groaned. “i can’t! i can’t! i’ll get a fence put round there if i have to do it myself. the least little slip, and nothing could save one, whether man, woman, child, or poor dumb animal.”
when she reached the top of the hill she met a new perplexity. where could she look now? which way could she go?—to mr. winter’s, or right on over the downs which stretched away to the very edge of the cliff?
“well,” she thought, “they wouldn’t go to mr. winter’s if they could help it;” and she turned and walked in the other direction, on and on, past the fairy ring, and all the time she gazed about her, but never a speck of anything living or moving could she see, and she turned away in despair. coming slowly back, she once more reached mr. winter’s gate.
“i’ve a good mind to go in and ask mrs. tucker if she has caught sight or sound of them,” she sighed. “it isn’t likely, but when one’s in despair— oh, my aaron! my aaron and miss loveday! what will the master and missus say?”
and poor bessie had begun to cry with fright and misery, when, just as she had turned in at mr. winter’s gate, who should she see coming down the pebbly path towards her but two dejected little figures, walking hand in hand.
at the first sight of her they paused, hardly recognising her, and half afraid—then, with a cry, they rushed into her arms, and for a few minutes all three wept together.
“what ’ave ’ee been doing—where ’ave ’ee been?” cried bessie, the first to check her tears. “oh, my dear life, the fright you’ve gived me, aaron! i ought to lace your jacket for you; it’s what you deserves. but i haven’t the heart to. oh, my dear life! the fright i’ve had, and how glad i am to see ’ee both. i don’t know what i haven’t thought might have happened to ’ee. but what have you been doing, you naughty, naughty children, to leave your beds and get out of window like that? i’ll never be able to trust ’ee any more, and i’ll have bars put to them windows before i sleep to-night!”
by this time some of their alarm had passed off, but the children sobbed on, partly from hunger, partly from weariness and shock, but a great deal from the sense of their naughtiness to poor bessie, who had been so good and kind to them; and it was not until they had sobbed out all their story that they could control themselves and feel at all comforted.
bessie did not scold them any more, but she looked very grave.
“well,” she said, “there is no knowing what mr. winter will do, for he is a funny kind of gentleman, and you were very naughty children; and what you have to do now is to make up your minds to bear what he does do. a pretty fine tale i’ve got to write to your ma and pa, miss loveday,” she added, “and a nice bit of news you’ve got for father when he comes home”—turning to aaron—“and he been out all night too, working hard to get you food and clothes!”
aaron began to weep again, touched to the heart by remorse.
“i’ll write to daddy myself and tell him,” sighed loveday penitently. “perhaps it won’t frighten him so much if he hears it from me first. i’ll write directly after breakfast, and then i’ll go and post it. may i, bessie?”
“yes, miss, if you’ll promise not to run away again,” said bessie severely. “you see, i don’t feel sure now about trusting either of you. i think i shall have to hobble you both, like they do the goats, or tether you.”
at which loveday felt more humbled than ever she had in her life before.
