Fairies Afield Part 9

Ysenda was doing her utmost, but just now her father was in a far from amiable humour, as she had again refused to accept a wealthy suitor, and to punish her the farmer was doling out even less money than his wont.

So several people whom this little story concerns were in rather low spirits--Paul and Mattie less so than their elders, for though it was all their grandmother could do to give them the plainest of food and by no means very much of that, her love made up for her poverty, and they were at an age when hopefulness is easy.

Well--the days pa.s.sed till came the Sunday on which Hodge was to try the working of the spell. He was up with the dawn, and instead of going to church as usual, spent the morning in scrubbing and scouring, till his kitchen shone like a new pin. For this was the idea that had come to him as the condition of success. Perfect cleanness! Peter's cottage had always been a marvel of this; it was whispered that the brownies or some mysterious beings of the kind acted as his housemaids, and perhaps it was so, for feeble and stiff as he was, it seemed impossible that he himself could have kept the boards so spotless, the stove so polished, the few pots and pans, which were of antique copper, so s.h.i.+ning. And for all we know, the saying was a true one.

Now Hodge was naturally a bit lazy, and his house by no means as well cared for as it might have been, and knowing this, it is scarcely to be wondered at that he hit upon this solution of the riddle. But he was not of course absolutely certain that it was correct, and for this reason, regardless of the probable disappointment to his companions, he let them understand that he did not expect them to be his guests.

"Another time I may invite them," he said to himself, "but best not begin by making a rule of it. Besides, if I fail I don't want them to sit here laughing at me. Not that there's much fear. The good people can't but be pleased with the way I've scrubbed and tidied. And I don't object to dining alone. I feel as if I could eat a whole capon to myself, not to speak of the other toothsome things! And after dinner I'll be glad of a rest, for working as hard as I've been doing, makes one ache."

He tidied up himself as well as his room, and then sat down to wait, the little bell in his hand. Twelve o'clock, a quarter past, then the half-hour, and at the moment, Hodge, having locked the door and closed the shutters for fear of intrusion or interruption, began solemnly to recite the incantation, which he had got well by heart, and as he uttered the last words "prithee haste" he lifted the silver toy and rang it vigorously, then sat listening with intensity.

For a moment or two he fancied he heard the whirring sound drawing near, but no--it was the buzzing in his head from his nervousness, for, stolid as he was, he was strung up with mingled hopes and fears. He rang again--no result; again he repeated the lines, half hoping he had not been quite accurate. No--they were as he had written them down and as he had compared them with the copies taken by his cousins. All was correct.

But--nothing happened! And Hodge, slow and unemotional though he was, felt ready to shed tears!

Then he remembered that he was very hungry, and there was nothing but a crust of dry bread and a sc.r.a.p of cheese in the house, and on Sundays there was no means of getting anything else. He had to be content, therefore, and to make the best of his scanty fare, and then he lay down on his bed and went to sleep and slept till it was dark, consoling himself with the thought that as he had failed there was not much chance of either of the others succeeding, and when he awoke, being on the whole a good-natured sort of fellow, he put his pride in his pocket and set off for Giles's, inspired partly, I dare say, by the hope of getting something to eat!

He found his two cousins supping together. Their fare was not luxurious nor abundant, but as he handed the bell to Giles and they saw his downcast face they at once understood the state of things and invited him to join them. He was glad enough to do so, and told them his story.

"And now, Giles," he ended, "it's your turn. Though what you can do to please the good people more than I did, I can't think."

"I'll tell you where you went wrong," said Giles. "You should have invited us too! There's something in numbers, you know--especially in the number three. And we've always been together at the dinner. Anyway, I now ask you two to be here next Sunday at the usual time to see me try my luck."

"Thank you," said Hodge rather sheepishly.

"Thank you," repeated Michael half absently, for his thoughts were running on other things. Ysenda's face had looked very sad in church that morning, and he fancied that Dame Martha and her charges were growing thinner and paler steadily.

"I'm certain they haven't enough to eat," he thought. "Maybe Giles will help a bit, if he succeeds," but in his heart he doubted if either Giles or he himself would fare better than Hodge had done.

"Yet," he said to himself, "Uncle Peter wasn't the sort to play a trick on us. And we saw the magic with our own eyes! But I scarce dare hope that we'll find the secret."

Sunday--the second Sunday--arrived in due time, and the three cousins met as arranged at Giles's cottage. Hodge was feeling of two minds. In one way he did not want Giles to succeed when he had failed; on the other hand, he greatly missed the excellent weekly dinner, and said to himself that after all it would be better to enjoy it at his cousin's than not to get it at all.

Giles was awaiting them at his door, the little bell in his hand.

"Come along in," he said. "Uncle Peter used to keep his guests waiting outside till it was all ready, but as we all saw the whole of it that last day, I don't see that I need start it all alone. It makes one a bit shaky and nervous, you see."

So Hodge and Mike, by no means unwillingly, followed him into the kitchen. Hodge was as usual very hungry, and again rather excited in hopes of a good dinner. Michael seemed depressed. He didn't care whether he was hungry or not; he was far from sanguine as to success for either Giles or himself; he missed his old uncle, and was rather in low spirits all round. Still of course he had no thought of refusing to take part in Giles's effort.

The three seated themselves, leaving the s.p.a.ce for the table's hoped-for appearance. Giles held the bell in his hand, every now and then glancing at the old clock in the corner, of which he was the happy possessor.

"It doesn't keep such very good time," he said in a low voice, "but I set it right this morning, so it can't be more than a moment or two slow."

And then they waited till the long hand approached and slightly pa.s.sed the twenty-nine minutes to the fateful half-hour.

Giles began to recite the charm, the two others listening. He said it quite correctly, then slowly raising the bell he rang it clearly. Utter silence. Then--yes--the first whirring was heard, gradually growing louder as it went on, till with the same sort of spring or swing the floor opened and up came the table, the mysterious s.p.a.ce closing again at once.

"Hurrah!" exclaimed Giles, starting up, and even Michael's heart beat faster with excitement. But Hodge, whose one thought was his dinner, Hodge's red face grew paler and his expression darkened.

"Not so fast," he said; "not much hurrahing about it." And then the others saw what his greedy eyes had at once perceived. The table was, as ever, covered with a spotless cloth--three places were laid for, as far as plates and knives were concerned, but on each lay a small loaf of black or brown bread and a wedge of cheese. That was all! No end dishes, no side ones--no centre with fruit--nothing but the plain everyday luncheon they were used to when at work in the fields, and none too much of it either, and as Hodge added, muttering, "not even a gla.s.s of beer"!

The three looked at each other. Giles and Mike began to laugh, as much at Hodge's angry disgust as at the thing itself.

"You've not hit it off, after all," said Michael to his host. "Still, anything's better than nothing. I vote that we eat what there is," and he cut a slice off his loaf. The others--Hodge very gloomily--did the same and began to eat. The provisions were good of their kind.

"I wonder what I did wrong, or didn't do right," said Giles. "At worst, Hodge, I've got on better than you, and next Sunday maybe Michael will manage best of all. Surely you'll get some hot potatoes at least, Mike?"

"I don't think I'm going to try at all," said the youngest of the cousins.

"It's been a mean sort of lega----" began Hodge.

But before he finished the word, Michael stopped him. "You mustn't speak against Uncle Peter," he said. "He did his best for us, of that I'm sure. The spell was not of his making. He had no power over it. He taught us all he could. Strikes me we're not _good_ enough to succeed, somehow. Think what he was! So contented and patient, and so unselfis.h.!.+

Giving away of the little he had, keeping scarce anything for himself."

"He was always sure of a good Sunday dinner, anyway," grumbled Hodge.

"And did he keep even that to himself?" queried Michael.

By this time the table was cleared of the little it had offered. Giles stood up and held out the bell.

"We may as well send it back again," he said, ringing, as he spoke, and in a few moments the whole had disappeared as they had seen it do that last Sunday at old Peter's.

Hodge walked off without speaking. Giles turned to Michael--he was still holding the little bell.

"Are you in earnest, Mike," he asked, "about giving up your try? If so, what's to be done with this?"

He waved the pretty thing in his hand as he spoke. Strange to say, it gave out no sound. The cousins looked at it curiously. The queer incident impressed them afresh, and Michael hesitated in his reply.

"There is no tricking of us in it," he murmured. Then he turned to Giles.

"You may as well give it to me," he said. "I'll think it over and let you know before next Sunday--and Hodge too, for that matter."

A new idea had struck him and his face brightened. He would consult Ysenda and abide by her advice, and in the meantime he carefully hid away the silver bell.

For two or three days to come he had no opportunity of meeting the farmer's pretty daughter. But one evening when he had looked in at Dame Martha's to see how she and the orphans were getting on, he met Ysenda, on her way thither. She was carrying a basket with what provisions she had got leave to bring them. For she was too honest to give away anything belonging to her father without his permission. She stopped at once, on seeing Mike, who doffed his hat.

"Good evening," she said, "I am----" but he interrupted her. "Let me carry that for you. It is heavy," he began, taking hold of the handle.

"I could wish it were heavier," she said, with a rather pitiful smile.

"I do what I can for the good dame and those dear children, but it isn't much."

"It's more than I do," said Michael regretfully.

"Don't say that," she replied eagerly. "You give all you have to give.

But what irks me is the knowing I _should_ be able to do all needed for the poor things, if only--my father----" she stopped short. "How are they?" she went on again. "You have been there, I make sure?"

Michael blushed.

"They're fairly well," he said. "It was only a bundle of fire-wood, and, and--some windfall apples I found--nothing to speak of. The boy--Paul--has had a bit of work this week. I spoke to our master for him, but it's a slack time of year, you see."

Ysenda nodded. Michael had turned and was retracing his steps with her.