'Thou wert working late, thou busy, busy bee!
After the fall of the cistus flower,
When the primrose-tree blossom was ready to burst,
I heard thee last, as I saw thee first;
In the silence of the evening hour
I heard thee, thou busy, busy bee.'
Aunt Helen was married in September, with the Rector to read the service, and Father to give her away, and Lilian and Peggy for bridesmaids, while the Sunday-school children strewed1 the path from the church-door with flowers, and Bobby flung rice and old shoes after the carriage, and all the village people came to watch, and say how sweet and pretty she looked, and to wish health and happiness to 'Mrs. John Neville.'
Things felt very flat when the excitement was all over and the last of the guests had left the Abbey, and the children found themselves wishing that life could be a perpetual round of bouquets2 and favours and wedding-cake, not forgetting presents to the bridesmaids, for Lilian and Peggy were the proud possessors of charming gold lockets set with turquoises3, with portraits of Aunt Helen inside them, 'the gifts of the bridegroom,' as the local paper described them, while a silver watch and chain consoled Bobby for not[158] taking a more prominent part in the ceremony, and made him declare that his new uncle was 'a brick, and no mistake.'
After so much dissipation, it was quite hard to settle down to plain prose again; but school had already re-opened, and the children had stolen an extra week of holidays to join in the festivities, so it was high time they were setting to work once more. It seemed strange to start off every morning without Lilian, who only went into Warford once a week now for music-lessons, and Mr. Vaughan had occasional qualms4 as to the safety of allowing such youthful Jehus to drive about the country unattended; but the little yellow pony-trap was so well known on the road that it would have been rather difficult for anything to happen to the children. People knew the time of their passing, and looked out for them daily; kindly5 women would come to cottage doorways6 to nod and smile; the inn-keeper at the Halfway7 Arms set his clock by their arrival; they had struck up quite a friendship with the postman, two milkmen, and the driver of a fish-cart, while the old man who broke stones by the roadside always nodded and gave them 'Good-morning,' and fired a facetious8 remark or two after them, which the children imagined he must relieve the monotony of his work by composing during the intervals9 of their coming and going.
Left alone, Lilian tried to settle down in dead earnest to battle with her task of housekeeping. It was a heavy burden for such young shoulders, for in a farmhouse11 there is always a great deal of extra work to be done. Pigs, poultry12, and young animals had to be fed, and the eggs gathered in daily; the dairy claimed constant attention, for the pans must be scalded and the pails polished bright, and though Joe did the milk[159]ing and churning, it was Lilian's business to superintend the making up of the butter, and to weigh each pound with her own hands and print it with the Abbey stamp.
Nancy, too, proved somewhat of a trial, for though a hard-working and most kind-hearted girl, she had not been gifted by Providence13 with either brains or a memory, and was capable of making the most astonishing mistakes, which she invariably justified14 by declaring she was sure she had done it so 'in Miss Vaughan's time.'
'But, Nancy,' said poor, bewildered Lilian, 'I'm sure Aunt Helen never told you to rub up the silver with paraffin and brickdust. You're scratching it horribly. There's a packet of proper pink powder stuff to do it with somewhere.'
'There's naught15 like oil and brickdust for putting a polish on metals,' observed Nancy, complacently16 scouring17 away at Bobby's christening mug. 'It beats all they rubbish that the pedlars brings round in boxes, and tries hard to persuade you to buy, so it do for sure!'
'I have no doubt about it's being very good for fenders and fire-irons, and things of that sort, but not for the best teapot. Don't you think it would be better, Nancy, if I were to clean the silver on Friday mornings, and you could get on with your kitchen?'
'As you wish, Miss Lilian,' said Nancy, relinquishing18 the polishing-leather with no great sorrow. 'Miss Vaughan, she always did it her own self, too. Was you going to do anything with that stock that has been in the larder19 since Monday?'
'Oh, Nancy, I had forgotten all about it!' cried Lilian, much conscience-stricken at the reminder20. 'And I had intended to make it into soup. Do go and fetch it, and see if it is still good.'
[160]But the stock, alas21! had accumulated a skim of green mould on the surface, and generally betrayed such symptoms of distress22 that it was fit for nothing but the pig-trough; and when Lilian, warned by its awful example, visited her neglected shelves, she found so many forgotten scraps23 put away into odd corners that she straightway formed the excellent resolution of reviewing the larder daily after breakfast, having an uneasy sensation that it was one of the golden rules which Aunt Helen had particularly impressed upon her, but which, like many others, had slidden into the background of her remembrance.
It was certainly one thing to housekeep10 with Aunt Helen at her elbow to advise, and quite another to puzzle it out with only her memory and the cookery-book for assistance. The quantities required for a family of five persons was a subject which took her some time to master.
'There's the butcher's boy at the back-door, miss,' observed Nancy one morning, a few days after the wedding, putting her head into the Rose Parlour, and interrupting the 'Bridal March' from 'Lohengrin' which Lilian was trying over on the piano. 'He's left his cart at the bottom of the drive, but he'll fetch up anything you want.'
The butcher only came round weekly at Gorswen, so Lilian abandoned her music and sallied forth24 to give her first order.
'We're quite tired of great sirloins of beef and legs of mutton,' she announced. 'Haven't you anything else this morning?'
'I'm sure the veal would be a change; we haven't had any for a long time.'
[161]'Very good, mum. How much may we send you?'
'About a pound and a half, I should think,' said Lilian, knitting her brows and trying in vain to remember the extent of Aunt Helen's weekly order. 'Or suppose we say two pounds. I expect that would be right.'
The meat arrived in due course, looking such a very small amount when Nancy placed it on the kitchen-table that Lilian exclaimed in horror:
'Why, Nancy, that will never last us for a week! It looks hardly enough for one dinner!'
'Perhaps if we boiled it, it might swell27 out a little, and be enough for twice, at any rate. I think you had better get a pan and put it on at once. I believe things have to boil for a long time before they're tender.'
Nancy obeyed without question.
'I suppose you can keep your eye on it, Miss Lilian?' she observed. 'I shall be busy upstairs in the bedrooms this morning.'
And she departed with broom and dustpan, leaving her young mistress in charge of the kitchen.
Lilian really did mean to look after that meat. She got it boiling briskly, and filled up the pan several times with water; then, giving it a final replenishing, she ran off to practise a few scales and exercises.
She was quite sure she had not been absent more than ten minutes, but when she returned to the kitchen she was greeted by a strong smell of burning, and rushing to her pan, found that every drop of water had boiled out, and the veal was frizzling at the bottom into a hard black mass. To take it off was her first act, and to call Nancy to the rescue her second.
[162]'Well, it do be a pity, Miss Lilian,' said that sympathizing damsel. 'But there, don't take on so! We can cut off that black part at the bottom, and put the rest down with some vegetables. Happen it'll turn out all right after all. There'll be just time afore dinner,' chopping away as she spoke28 in a vigorous onslaught on the carrots and onions.
It was Saturday, so the children were at home, but even their healthy appetites were not equal to the very untempting dish which was set before them, for the unfortunate veal had boiled away to ribbons, and all the goodness had gone into the lost gravy29, while the pulpy30 remains31 tasted so hopelessly burnt as to be perfectly32 uneatable.
'The vegetables are quite nice, at any rate,' began Father cheerfully; then seeing Lilian's swimming eyes: 'Never mind, little woman; experience is always dearly bought, and a vegetarian33 dinner won't hurt us for once in a way. We must make out with home produce until the butcher comes again. There's a young cockerel that will do for Sunday, and perhaps I can shoot you a rabbit; and we can always fall back upon eggs and bacon, at any rate, if there is nothing else to be had. Cheer up! I don't expect to find a full-fledged housekeeper34 in five minutes!'
After this Lilian determined35 to provide more generously, and astonished the grocer by ordering three pounds of cayenne pepper, and a like quantity of mace36 (embarrassing possessions which lingered in the spice-cupboard for years before they were eventually finished), and generally running the household on so liberal a scale that Father had to interfere37 and preach economy. Such very Spartan38 fare was the result of his lecture that he wisely fixed39 her a weekly allowance, and left her to manage as best she could upon it, and[163] this plan answered far better, for she had a natural aptitude40 for arithmetic, and soon learned to make the various items fall into their proper places, balancing her little account-book in quite a professional manner.
About this time, too, Lilian took to poring over the 'Ladies' Column' in the newspaper, and trying the various recipes which were given therein. Some of them were very successful, and—especially the cakes—were much appreciated by the children, though others did not turn out quite what she had expected, in which case it is only charitable to suppose the oven was at fault.
'There's a splendid one here, Nancy,' she announced one day, 'under the heading of "What to do with your Cold Mutton." You mince41 it all up with herbs, and make it into a kind of pasty, and it sounds most delicious. It says, "First take a couple of onions." By-the-by, did Joe bring in any onions this morning? Those in the basket are all finished.'
'No, Miss; Joe, he's never been near to-day, though there's master's shooting-boots waiting for him to clean.'
'Oh, then do run down, Nancy, please, and ask him to dig up a few, while I put the meat through the mincing-machine. You'll very likely find him in the orchard42 or the stackyard.'
'I couldn't find Joe nowheres,' she panted. 'But he'd put these down in the harness-room, so I just took them. Shall I chop them up for you now?'
'Please do. But oh, Nancy, stop! Let me look! These are not onions; they're the gladiolus bulbs that David has just taken up from the garden! What a[164] mercy you did not put them into the pasty! We might all have been poisoned!'
'Lor!' said Nancy, much abashed44, 'I made so sure they was onions I never thought to look at 'em. But if it's only a couple you're needing, miss, there are two or three left in the larder that would do. Was it anything else you'll be wanting?'
'It says, "Take a little dried thyme, sage45 and sweet marjoram,"' read Lilian, with her finger on the recipe, '"together with a few pieces of lemon-peel." I wonder what it calls "a little." I haven't the slightest idea, but I suppose we must put plenty in to make it a nice flavour, or it won't taste of anything.'
So, putting a very liberal interpretation46 on the words, she cut up a goodly supply of those herbs, and mixed them in with the meat.
The pasty came out of the oven baked to a turn, and smelling delicious, and Lilian felt quite a thrill of satisfaction as it was placed on the table, and Father began to cut it. But the 'Ladies' Column' should have been a little more explicit47 as to the quantity of flavouring, for, when it came to a matter of eating, the herbs so entirely48 predominated that the mutton was utterly49 lost, and, as she had unfortunately cut up the stalks as well as the leaves, the mixture bore a horrible resemblance to chopped hay. It was distinctly galling50, but, still, she learned by her mistakes; for practice gives the best training, and there is no such invaluable51 teacher as hard experience.
Well-meaning friends were kind in their offers of help and advice, but, as Lilian said:
'You can't run down in the middle of mixing a pudding to ask Miss Forster how much sugar to put into it, or send for the Rector's housekeeper to tell you when the custard is thick enough. Mrs. Daven[165]port told me to write her a post-card if I got into a fix, and she would come over and set me straight; but I don't think I should quite like that, and I'm sure Nancy wouldn't.'
Father did not encourage her to seek outside help, thinking it better that the Abbey should manage its own affairs, even at the cost of a little inconvenience, and kindly shut his eyes to many small deficiencies, knowing that time was the best remedy, and that old heads do not naturally grow on young shoulders.
At first the cares of her new position were a terrible burden on the poor child's mind, for she was, if anything, too conscientious52, and almost morbidly53 anxious to do right and fill the place which Aunt Helen had left so empty. She would wake at four o'clock in the morning, and not dare to close her eyes again, for fear Nancy should oversleep herself, and the children be late for school. She would visit the dairy ten times a day to see that the thunder had not turned the milk, nor the cat crept in through the window. She counted and recounted the linen54 and the silver, and sat worrying over her account-books at night till Father threatened to burn them.
I think her greatest trial, however, was on the few occasions when Mr. Vaughan was obliged to stay away for the night, and leave her responsible for the safe keeping of the whole establishment. She would go round with Nancy and a candle, carefully locking all the doors and securing the shutters55, peering fearfully into cupboards and starting at her own shadow on the wall; and, having finally retreated to her bedroom, would barricade56 the door with a tin box, and place the poker57 handy on a chair by her bedside. But in spite of these precautions, the nights were misery58 all the same. Sleep refused to come, and she lay awake[166] hour after hour, imagining every sound to be a burglar breaking into the premises59, and wondering how Peggy could slumber60 so peacefully in the other little white bed. It is amazing, when the house is perfectly quiet, how many creaks and peculiar61 noises make themselves heard which we never think of noticing in the daytime. The wind blowing the ivy62 about would sound like a hand tapping upon the pane63, the cattle trampling64 in the fields suggested footsteps under the window, and a mouse behind the wainscot would raise her to such a pitch of panic that she would often be obliged to get up and light the candle to reassure65 herself, and when she at last fell asleep it was generally with her fingers stuffed in her ears, and her head buried under the bedclothes, an uncomfortable proceeding66, resulting in such white cheeks and heavy eyes that Father, with some difficulty finding out the cause of the trouble, never left in future without arranging for old David to sleep in the house during his absence.
I think, during those early struggles, her correspondence with Aunt Helen was her greatest help and comfort, for to that dearest of friends she could unburden all her worries and perplexities, and be sure of sympathy.
'It is so hard to do exactly right,' wrote Lilian—'to be generous without being extravagant67, and economical without being stingy. Father says we must be careful, and spend as little as we can, but things to eat seem to cost such a terrible amount all the same. I wish we could live on porridge and potatoes, like the Irish do! Life would be far simpler.
'About going on with my education. You ask if I am keeping up my French and German, but there really seems no time. The two hours' practising for Herr Frankenburg is as much as I can possibly get in.[167] I am busy with Nancy all morning, the music takes the best part of the afternoon, then the children come home, and after tea I must see that they learn their lessons and go to bed, and Father likes someone to talk to in the evenings. It is so dull for him if I am buried in a German exercise when he wants to tell me about the farm. I try to attack a few "improving" books when I can manage it, and I have begun to read Carlyle's "French Revolution" to Father in the evenings, but I am sorry to say it generally sends him to sleep. He is so tired with the threshing just now, poor darling! and, as he said one night: "You see, my dear, I have so many troubles of my own at present that the trials of the French peasantry of a hundred years ago seem an affair of quite minor68 importance."'
Aunt Helen's letter back was just like a little piece of her dear self.
'I can sympathize thoroughly69 with all your worries,' it ran, 'for I, too, was left motherless at sixteen, to manage as best I could. Of course, keep up our family standard of cleanliness and order as much as you possibly can, but you will find it a mistake to be too particular and exacting70. Rather, let the children run in sometimes with dirty boots than check their confidence by continual fault-finding. I am sorry that the education must needs be somewhat neglected, but after all the other is more important. There are plenty of "blue" Girton girls in the world who do not seem to me to be of much use to anyone except themselves, while as the "little mother" of your home you are filling a place that is the sphere of every true woman. And because you have no time for reading is not any reason why your thinking powers need rust71 away. There is so much wisdom to be learnt from even the little ordinary incidents of life if one knows how to[168] appreciate them. People say one is apt to grow narrow with living in the country, but I have generally found the people who do so are those who have no interests outside the round of society pleasures or social gossip, and to my mind they would be narrow anywhere. When you know a little about botany and natural history, all the common things on the farm have something to teach you. The quaint72 sayings of the villagers are often as full of humour as those Scotch73 books over which people rave74 so much, and many of their stories are such interesting survivals of ancient folklore75 that I have often longed to collect them in writing. While surely, to a thoughtful mind, the constant sight of so much loveliness around tends to have a more ennobling effect than an environment of bricks and mortar76 and smoky chimneys, whatever the Londoners may say.
'Do your household duties thoroughly, but don't let them absorb you entirely, for Father does not want you to be a mere77 domestic drudge78, with no ideas beyond the potato-pan and the pepper-pot. When I was a young girl I often tilted79 up a volume of Tennyson and read snatches while I compounded a pudding, and found it had a wonderfully inspiring effect, and did not spoil the cooking either, for my "Tennyson" puddings generally turned out a great success.
'You will find the housekeeping comes easier as you grow older, and in the meantime remember you are not only educating yourself, but bringing up the younger ones, who look to you now instead of to me for example, and who will be far more influenced by what you do and what you are than by any amount of good advice you may bestow80 upon them. It is hard to write all this from a distance of so many thousand miles, when I am longing81 to sit over the[169] fire in the Rose Parlour, and have a good chat with you, like we used to do sometimes when the children had gone to bed.
'I am afraid there seems very little festivity or party-going for you, dear child, and I should have been glad to hear you had been asked out rather more; but, after all, much society often means much rivalry82 and heartburning. I have tried both, and find there is more real pleasure to be had from the intellectual than from the social side of life, for while the latter is apt to fail us just when we most require it, the former is "warranted to wear well and improve with keeping," and, so far from being affected83 by the changes and chances of this world, sticks by us when health and wealth and even friends can fall away.'
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1
strewed
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| v.撒在…上( strew的过去式和过去分词 )；散落于；点缀；撒满 | |
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2
bouquets
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| n.花束( bouquet的名词复数 )；（酒的）芳香 | |
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3
turquoises
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| n.绿松石( turquoise的名词复数 )；青绿色 | |
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qualms
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| n.不安；内疚 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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doorways
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| n.门口，门道( doorway的名词复数 ) | |
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7
halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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8
facetious
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| adj.轻浮的，好开玩笑的 | |
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9
intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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10
housekeep
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| vi.自立门户，主持家务 | |
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farmhouse
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| n.农场住宅（尤指主要住房） | |
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poultry
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| n.家禽，禽肉 | |
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13
providence
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| n.深谋远虑，天道，天意；远见；节约；上帝 | |
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14
justified
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| a.正当的，有理的 | |
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15
naught
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| n.无，零 [=nought] | |
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complacently
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| adv. 满足地, 自满地, 沾沾自喜地 | |
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17
scouring
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| 擦[洗]净，冲刷，洗涤 | |
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18
relinquishing
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| 交出，让给( relinquish的现在分词 )； 放弃 | |
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larder
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| n.食物贮藏室，食品橱 | |
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reminder
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| n.提醒物，纪念品；暗示，提示 | |
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21
alas
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| int.唉(表示悲伤、忧愁、恐惧等) | |
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22
distress
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| n.苦恼，痛苦，不舒适；不幸；vt.使悲痛 | |
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scraps
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| 油渣 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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veal
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| n.小牛肉 | |
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dilemma
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| n.困境，进退两难的局面 | |
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swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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29
gravy
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| n.肉汁；轻易得来的钱，外快 | |
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pulpy
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| 果肉状的，多汁的，柔软的； 烂糊； 稀烂 | |
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remains
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| n.剩余物，残留物；遗体，遗迹 | |
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32
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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33
vegetarian
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| n.素食者；adj.素食的 | |
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housekeeper
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| n.管理家务的主妇，女管家 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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mace
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| n.狼牙棒，豆蔻干皮 | |
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interfere
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| v.(in)干涉，干预；(with)妨碍，打扰 | |
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spartan
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| adj.简朴的，刻苦的；n.斯巴达；斯巴达式的人 | |
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fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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40
aptitude
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| n.(学习方面的)才能，资质，天资 | |
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41
mince
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| n.切碎物；v.切碎，矫揉做作地说 | |
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orchard
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| n.果园，果园里的全部果树，(美俚)棒球场 | |
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43
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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44
abashed
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| adj.窘迫的，尴尬的v.使羞愧，使局促，使窘迫( abash的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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45
sage
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| n.圣人，哲人；adj.贤明的，明智的 | |
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46
interpretation
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| n.解释，说明，描述；艺术处理 | |
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47
explicit
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| adj.详述的，明确的；坦率的；显然的 | |
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48
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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49
utterly
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| adv.完全地，绝对地 | |
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50
galling
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| adj.难堪的,使烦恼的,使焦躁的 | |
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51
invaluable
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| adj.无价的，非常宝贵的，极为贵重的 | |
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52
conscientious
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| adj.审慎正直的，认真的，本着良心的 | |
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53
morbidly
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| adv.病态地 | |
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54
linen
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| n.亚麻布，亚麻线，亚麻制品；adj.亚麻布制的，亚麻的 | |
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55
shutters
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| 百叶窗( shutter的名词复数 )； （照相机的）快门 | |
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56
barricade
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| n.路障，栅栏，障碍；vt.设路障挡住 | |
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57
poker
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| n.扑克；vt.烙制 | |
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58
misery
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| n.痛苦，苦恼，苦难；悲惨的境遇，贫苦 | |
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premises
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| n.建筑物，房屋 | |
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60
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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peculiar
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| adj.古怪的，异常的；特殊的，特有的 | |
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ivy
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| n.常青藤，常春藤 | |
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63
pane
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| n.窗格玻璃，长方块 | |
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64
trampling
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| 踩( trample的现在分词 )； 践踏； 无视； 侵犯 | |
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65
reassure
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| v.使放心，使消除疑虑 | |
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66
proceeding
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| n.行动，进行，(pl.)会议录，学报 | |
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67
extravagant
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| adj.奢侈的；过分的；(言行等)放肆的 | |
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68
minor
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| adj.较小(少)的，较次要的；n.辅修学科；vi.辅修 | |
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69
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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exacting
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| adj.苛求的，要求严格的 | |
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71
rust
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| n.锈；v.生锈；(脑子)衰退 | |
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72
quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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73
scotch
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| n.伤口，刻痕；苏格兰威士忌酒；v.粉碎，消灭，阻止；adj.苏格兰(人)的 | |
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74
rave
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| vi.胡言乱语；热衷谈论；n.热情赞扬 | |
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75
folklore
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| n.民间信仰，民间传说，民俗 | |
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76
mortar
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| n.灰浆，灰泥；迫击炮；v.把…用灰浆涂接合 | |
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77
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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78
drudge
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| n.劳碌的人；v.做苦工，操劳 | |
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79
tilted
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| v. 倾斜的 | |
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80
bestow
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| v.把…赠与，把…授予；花费 | |
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81
longing
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| n.（for）渴望 | |
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82
rivalry
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| n.竞争，竞赛，对抗 | |
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83
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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