We always rose early at Longfield.It was lovely to see the morning sun climbing over One-Tree Hill,catching the larch-wood,and creeping down the broad slope of our field;thence up toward Redwood and Leckington--until,while the dews yet lay thick on our shadowed valley,Leckington Hill was all in a glow of light.Delicious,too,to hear the little ones running in and out,bright and merry as children ought to be in the first wholesome hours of the day--to see them feeding their chickens and petting their doves--calling every minute on father or mother to investigate and enjoy some wonder in farm-yard or garden.And either was ever ready to listen to the smallest of these little mysteries,knowing that nothing in childhood is too trivial for the notice,too foolish for the sympathy,of those on whom the Father of all men has bestowed the holy dignity of parenthood.
I could see them now,standing among the flower-beds,out in the sunny morning,the father's tall head in the centre of the group--for he was always the important person during the brief hour or two that he was able to be at home.The mother close beside him,and both knotted round with an interlaced mass of little arms and little eager faces,each wanting to hear everything and to look at everything--everybody to be first and nobody last.None rested quiet or mute for a second,except the one who kept close as his shadow to her father's side,and unwittingly was treated by him less like the other children,than like some stray spirit of another world,caught and held jealously,but without much outward notice,lest haply it might take alarm,and vanish back again unawares.Whenever he came home and did not see her waiting at the door,his first question was always--"Where's Muriel?"Muriel's still face looked very bright this morning--the Monday morning after the election--because her father was going to be at home the whole day.It was the annual holiday he had planned for his work-people.This only "dinner-party"we had ever given,was in its character not unlike that memorable feast,to which were gathered the poor,the lame,the halt,and the blind--all who needed,and all who could not return,the kindness.There were great cooking preparations--everything that could make merry the heart of man--tea,to comfort the heart of woman,hard-working woman--and lots of bright pennies and silver groats to rejoice the very souls of youth.
Mrs.Halifax,Jem Watkins,and his Jenny,were as busy as bees all morning.John did his best to help,but finally the mother pleaded how hard it was that the children should miss their holiday-walk with him,so we were all dismissed from the scene of action,to spend a long,quiet two hours,lying under the great oak on One-Tree Hill.
The little ones played about till they were tired;then John took out the newspaper,and read about Ciudad Rodrigo and Lord Wellington's entry into Madrid--the battered eagles and the torn and bloody flags of Badajoz,which were on their way home to the Prince Regent.
"I wish the fighting were over,and peace were come,"said Muriel.
But the boys wished quite otherwise;they already gloried in the accounts of battles,played domestic games of French and English,acted garden sieges and blockades.
"How strange and awful it seems,to sit on this green grass,looking down on our quiet valley,and then think of the fighting far away in Spain--perhaps this very minute,under this very sky.Boys,I'll never let either of you be a soldier.""Poor little fellows!"said I,"they can remember nothing but war time.""What would peace be like?"asked Muriel.
"A glorious time,my child--rejoicings everywhere,fathers and brothers coming home,work thriving,poor men's food made cheap,and all things prospering.""I should like to live to see it.Shall I be a woman,then,father?"He started.Somehow,she seemed so unlike an ordinary child,that while all the boys'future was merrily planned out--the mother often said,laughing,she knew exactly what sort of a young man Guy would be--none of us ever seemed to think of Muriel as a woman.
"Is Muriel anxious to be grown up?Is she not satisfied with being my little daughter always?""Always."
Her father drew her to him,and kissed her soft,shut,blind eyes.
Then,sighing,he rose,and proposed that we should all go home.
This first feast at Longfield was a most merry day.The men and their families came about noon.Soon after,they all sat down to dinner;Jem Watkins'plan of the barn being universally scouted in favour of an open-air feast,in the shelter of a hay-rick,under the mild blue September sky.Jem presided with a ponderous dignity which throughout the day furnished great private amusement to Ursula,John,and me.
In the afternoon,all rambled about as they liked--many under the ciceroneship of Master Edwin and Master Guy,who were very popular and grand indeed.Then the mother,with Walter clinging shy-eyed to her gown,went among the other poorer mothers there;talked to one,comforted another,counselled a third,and invariably listened to all.There was little of patronizing benevolence about her;she spoke freely,sometimes even with some sharpness,when reproving comment was needed;but her earnest kindness,her active goodness,darting at once to the truth and right of things,touched the women's hearts.While a few were a little wholesomely afraid of her--all recognized the influence of "the mistress,"penetrating deep and sure,extending far and wide.
She laughed at me when I told her so--said it was all nonsense--that she only followed John's simple recipe for making his work-people feel that he was a friend as well as a master.
"What is that?"
"To pay attention and consideration to all they say;and always to take care and remember to call them by their right Christian names."I could not help smiling--it was an answer so like Mrs.Halifax,who never indulged in any verbal sentimentalism.Her part in the world was deeds.