CHAPTER XI

IN RETREAT

AWAY down in Devonshire was a little village by the sea. As yet no motor-bus had touched it, for it could only be reached by one of the old pack-horse lanes, and the way was steep and stony, up a precipitous hill, and down through a narrow combe to the sea. A cluster of fishermen's cottages, an old storm-battered grey church on the hill above them, a couple of farmhouses, and a small granite vicarage, these composed the village of Cudweed Cove.

A butcher came every Saturday from Drangerford, a small town eight miles inland; he brought loaves of bread for those who did not bake at home. A grocer and oilman arrived every Wednesday; he also brought bread, and with these supplies the people of Cudweed were well content. Fish was not very plentiful, but shrimps and crabs were always to be had, and lobsters occasionally.

Into this small village, at the close of a hot afternoon in August, arrived Orris and her little niece. They had been driven in a small trap from Drangerford, and their destination was a little whitewashed cottage half-way up the combe.

The cottage was owned by a Mrs. Dabbs, a widow, and she had as a young girl lived with Orris and her father for some years. She had always been devoted to Orris, and had often said how much she would like to see her again. On the previous Christmas, she had come up to London to see a married sister, and Orris had given her tea at her flat, and promised one day that she would pay her a visit at Cudweed.

As Orris had racked her brain to think of what place she could take refuge in, away from all friends and acquaintances, she suddenly thought of Maria Dabbs. So she wrote to her at once, and received a reply in two days' time, saying that she could put her large spare bedroom and little parlour at her disposal, and would be delighted to take her in and do for her.

Pippa was half delighted, half regretful, at this sudden move. She did not at all like going away without wishing "Master Jock" good-bye. She wanted her dolls' house, and she loved the farm, but, childlike, the excitement of a journey in a train, and going to the sea kept up her spirits.

Orris felt tired and depressed. She did not see her future. She had a shrinking from town life again, and yet felt that to give Pippa a good education, she must supplement her small income in some way or other.

Mrs. Calthrop had written her a brief letter, enclosing a cheque up to the date of the fire. Jock had judged her rightly. She had no desire to see Orris, but in her letter she wrote:

"Of course, I cannot believe in this extraordinary will that has so suddenly been produced by Jock Muir. If he had received it when he says he did, would he have kept it so quiet all this time? I am going to take legal steps when I reach town."

She never mentioned the fire. The loss of the library did not trouble her now, it was eclipsed by her intense anxiety to prove this recent will invalid.

But nothing could put the disastrous fire out of Orris's thoughts. She was thinking of it now as the trap creaked and rattled up and down the stony lane, with the steep banks and high hedges on either side of it.

"Would the drive ever end?" she wondered. She marvelled at Pippa, who was keeping up an animated conversation with the old driver. His broad soft Devonshire tongue amused her greatly.

"Say it again," she said, with her rippling laugh. "It's something like French, isn't it? What is 'gurt,' and 'wisht'?"

The old man shook his head.

"Aw, 'ee'll find 'en oot, I rackon, when the wind do cum auver 'ee. It do drive doon to the zay praper strong 'twixt the girt hedges. Us be terrible buffeted here to winter. The moor on tap on we, an the zay to bottom, but there, a' be livin' to Drangerford now, on'y foreigners ull niver bide in this vitty plaace."

"You mustn't depress us," said Orris, smiling, and trying to turn her thoughts to things around her. "It isn't winter yet, but August—the month in the year which is best for the sea."

When they at last came in sight of Cudweed, the old driver rattled down the lane at a tremendous pace and drew up at Pansy Cottage in great style. Mrs. Dabbs was standing at the door to welcome them, dressed in a fresh-starched pink cotton gown.

Pippa was enchanted with the smallness and quaintness of the cottage. The big shells and china dogs on the mantelpiece of the small sitting-room delighted her, as did also a stuffed parrot in a case. She wanted to go and see the sea before her supper, and scampered up and down stairs and in and out of the rooms till Orris felt giddy. But she was quite firm on one point, that Pippa must do no sight-seeing that night, but have her supper and go straight to bed. And by the time supper, consisting of hot chicken and bread sauce, and a milk pudding, had been consumed, and her box unpacked, and everything arranged for bedtime, Pippa was quite ready to be tucked in upon a real feather bed and fall asleep, to be ready for the joys of to-morrow.

After she was disposed of, Orris took a turn along the beach to ease her aching head. The tide was out, the rocks, with their slimy amber seaweed, were touched with gold from the setting sun. It was a very still evening; the sea lay calm and still with just a ripple at the edge, and as Orris paced the golden sand and dreamily gazed out over the ocean in front of her to the opalescent sky, with faint rosy clouds on the horizon, peace stole into her heart.

"After all," she mused, "I am not a criminal. I have only been guilty of an act of carelessness. And if he doesn't feel it as much as I do, I ought to be thankful."

And then her thoughts dwelt on Jock. At first, she had looked upon him as a careless, irresponsible boy. Gradually, as she came to know him better, she found, if he had a boy's sense of humour and light-hearted gaiety, he had a man's will and purpose in life. At the farm, the Prestons' opinion of him impressed her.

"He's a born master of men," said the old farmer.

"He's the kindest heart and the sweetest temper in the world," said his wife.

And Orris had proved both these statements to be true.

"I have really come away to test my own heart," she murmured to herself; "to discover whether I could love him enough to cast in my lot with his. I was afraid of his hurrying me into something of which I might repent later. I believe I'm a very cold-blooded, cautious creature. I have lived down my warm impulses. I felt too old for him a short while back, but I don't now. I believe, if we did come together, he would be my master, and his will bears mine down already. But I never, never could marry him unless we were of one mind on the deepest things in life. He knows that, I am sure, though I think he feels more than he says. It is of no use; I cannot make up my mind yet. If I were really in love with him, there would be no hesitation. And he is worthy of being loved as he would himself love. I will try and not think about him any more at present."

But in the ensuing days Orris found this very difficult, for Pippa's talk was incessantly about "Master Jock," as she always insisted upon calling him.

"If he was here, I b'lieve he would take me into the sea on his back!" she sighed one day.

"If only Master Jock would walk in at the window one day and come and help me build my sand castles, Aunt Ollie! Can't you write and ask him to come?"

"Do you think Master Jock is settled in his house yet? We'll soon go back, won't we? And then he'll ask us to tea, and p'raps we'll have it in the darling little powder-room."

Orris found it quite impossible to explain the situation to Pippa, so would generally try to turn her mind to another subject.

And one day a fair-haired boy appeared on the sands. He was the old Vicar's grandson, who came every summer to see his grandparents. He and Pippa were about the same age, and were soon the greatest friends. Orris was glad and thankful to see the intimacy between them. She was making friends with some of the fisher-folk. Occasionally she went to tea at the Vicarage, but the old Vicar and his wife were badly off, and plainly said they could not offer much hospitality to visitors. Orris liked the Vicar; he was a dreamy mystic, talked over the heads of his parishioners in his sermons, but was a good friend to them in the week, and was never absent from any sick-bed or troubled house.

A week or two passed very quietly. Then came Orris's birthday. Pippa had made great preparations for it. Mrs. Dabbs had been told to make a big iced cake; Pippa herself had made some wonderful little cakes for the occasion, Mrs. Dabbs had, of course, superintended them. They were made of dough, and were supposed to represent mice, with currants for their eyes and slips of candied peel for their mouths.

Pippa had been to the post office in the village, and had bought a wonderful shell box out of her own money. She rather coveted it herself, and spent a good deal of her time in unwrapping it and wrapping it up again in its silver paper coverings. But of course it was a dead secret. Then, the day before, she had been into some meadows and collected all the wild flowers she could find, chiefly ox-eyed daisies and wild grasses, and had made a long wreath or garland with which to decorate her aunt. This also was hidden away, and for the time Pippa was a most mysterious little person, stealing up and down stairs on tiptoe, and into the kitchen to talk about the event in loud whispers to Mrs. Dabbs.

Of course, Orris was delighted with the garland and the shell box. They were both presented to her at half-past six in the morning by a very wide-awake little person in her white nightie and bare feet.

"Dear Aunt Ollie, I wiss you very many happy returns of the day."

So Orris took the giver and the gifts into bed with her, and had no more rest that morning.

But the postman arrived that day with a parcel for her. She had as yet told no one of her address, and could not understand it. The postmark was unfortunately erased, but the box proved to contain some most exquisite hot-house flowers, and at the bottom, in a little separate parcel of silver paper, were two pairs of white suede gloves. A hot flush came into Orris's face as she recognized the writing:

"Blessing and joy be yours to-day. From one who thinks of you."

"Now how has he discovered my address?" Orris gasped in bewilderment and dismay. She remembered how often he had said: "You'll never be able to get away from me. I should find you in any corner of the earth you chose to go to!" He had done it. Her secrecy was a failure. If he knew her whereabouts, there was no reason to conceal it from anyone else. And how had he known her birthday? She called Pippa to her.

"Pippa darling, have you ever talked about my birthday to anyone?"

"No," said Pippa promptly and cheerfully; "at least, Master Jock asked me one day. He put it down in a book he had; and he put mine too. I wish my birfday would be quicker about coming. It seems 'years' since my last one. Has Master Jock sent you these pretty flowers?"

"I rather think he has."

Orris sat looking at her presents as if she were lost in a dream. How "could" he have discovered her retreat? She had not told Dugald or any of her friends in town. No one knew that she had left Veddon Weal. She wondered if he would respect her wish to be left alone, or whether he would suddenly appear in person one day. She finally decided that she would not acknowledge his gifts. Then he would know that she wished to be left undisturbed.

But the following week a box of chocolates arrived for Pippa. There was no word with it, no signature, so that also was left unacknowledged.

Pippa was now quite reconciled to her new life; she played daily with Allan Bridges, the little boy, and she was friends with all the fishermen. Orris simply rested—or lazed, as she expressed it. She had not had such a holiday for years, and it was doing her good. But when September came, and the days began to shorten, and the weather became chilly, she wondered what her next move had better be. Her cousin Dugald implored her to come back to town. She had, after some considerable thought, let him have her address, and then, feeling she was rather like an ostrich hiding her head in the sand, she had at last written to Reyne. She and Lady Violet were back in town, and Lady Violet had been extra poorly and was going to the Riviera for the winter.

"I am going," Reyne wrote, "with a contented heart. Miss Dashwood has taught me such lessons from her cheerfulness with that poor sister of hers that I am now going to put her principles into practice. I have missed the village people so much. I learnt to know them as friends, but Mrs. Dane writes occasionally, giving me all the village news. I hear that Mr. Muir has not yet taken possession of his house, for it is in the builder's hands, and he is having it renovated from top to bottom. He is busy farming his own land. He often dines with Mr. Dane—they seem to be great friends. I am afraid we shall not meet each other again before I go abroad, but if you chance to come up to town, do come and see us."

Orris shook her head.

"No," she murmured to herself, "I do not feel like town—not yet!"

It was a few days after this that she met, on the sands, a stranger. She looked a well-bred woman, was very tall, and carried her head proudly. She was dressed plainly in a severely-cut coat and skirt, with a soft grey felt hat pulled over her head. She might be between fifty and sixty, had white hair, very striking dark eyes with thick bushy eyebrows, and her face was stern and unfriendly. Yet when she saw Pippa dancing about on the sand, covered all over with strands of seaweed, and calling out to her aunt that she was a mermaid just come out of the sea, she smiled at her, and her smile was peculiarly sweet. When Orris went in to dinner, she asked Maria Dabbs who she was.

"Oh, that's Miss Lyle," she replied promptly. "She has come down to her house again. She really owns the village, and lives at Cudweed Chase. 'Tis about two miles from here. She lives in London most of the year, but comes down here for a month or two at a time, and she arrived yesterday. She generally rides about on a big grey horse. She's masterful, but kind; she's very good to our Vicar and his wife, and she always takes charge of the Sunday school when she's here."

Orris felt interested in this new arrival. It was not long before Pippa made her acquaintance.

She was playing on the beach alone one morning—for Orris had rather a bad headache and was lying down—and Miss Lyle stopped and spoke to her.

Pippa, of course, was delighted to give her full information about herself.

"I think I must come and see your aunt," Miss Lyle said, after she had received a jumble of facts from the child.

"I wish you would," said Pippa. "Aunt Ollie has no books to look at here, and no Master Jock to talk to, nor Mrs. Preston, and she doesn't laugh so often as she used to. Can you make people laugh?"

"No, I never could," said Miss Lyle a little grimly, though her eyes twinkled in spite of herself.

Pippa sighed.

"Master Jock always does—'always.' You simple can't help laughing, for if you don't, he gives you a squeeze and a tickle. He says if you laugh, you make the world go round quicker. Did you know that?"

"I expect you could teach me a lot of things," said Miss Lyle pleasantly. And then she passed on.

Pippa told Orris, when she saw her, that the new lady was "very solemn indeed, but just a little bit smily when you talked to her."

The very next day Miss Lyle appeared at the cottage, and in the course of conversation Orris gleaned that she was a lonely woman and had had a great deal of trouble in her life. She did not give Orris any details.

"I am a busy woman in town," she said. "I have found the only cure for loneliness is work. I am secretary and treasurer to one or two philanthropic projects, but I get away here for relaxation in the summer and autumn. I'm fond of the fisher-folk. I suppose I must not ask you if you are making a long stay here?"

"I don't know," said Orris; "I came here for a rest and change, but my circumstances are rather difficult at present, and I hardly know what my future plans are going to be."

"Will you come over to lunch with me one day next week? I won't ask the child. I would like to have you to myself."

Orris consented. She felt strangely drawn towards this grave stately woman.

After she had left, Maria Dabbs told Orris a little more about her. Her father and mother had died together of virulent 'flu in London. She was engaged to be married to the Vicar of Cudweed, evidently a charming man, from Mrs. Dabbs's account. And then, only a twelvemonth after her parents' death, and a week before their wedding was fixed, he was drowned trying to rescue a fishing boat in a gale.

"And she's been all alone in the world ever since," Mrs. Dabbs said. "She did have a brother away at sea, but he was killed in the war; it seems that every one has been taken from her that she loves. Of course, she's wealthy, but she lives in a most simple style, and doesn't seem to care for the things that money could give her."

"Perhaps," said Orris gently, "she has most of her treasures away from this world."

"Yes," assented Mrs. Dabbs, "she's very religious—I know that; for one month, in a very stormy autumn that we had, when our Vicar was down with pneumonia and nobody could be got to take the services, and the church was shut, she opened the schoolroom on Sunday evening and had a service there with us. And we had some hymns, and she got Peter Lobbs to read the lessons, and she gave us such a sweet simple kind of talk out of the Bible that all of us said we wished we could have her always doing it."

Orris went to lunch at Cudweed Chase the following week. It was a rugged grey stone house by the sea, not beautiful, but sheltered and comfortable inside, furnished in the solid Early Victorian style. Miss Lyle received her in a pleasant sunny morning-room overlooking the bay; and before very long Orris found herself confiding in her a little of her late history. Jock's name did not figure much in it, but Miss Lyle showed such interest and sympathy, that Orris perhaps was led to be more confidential than she would have thought it possible, with such a comparative stranger.

When they parted, Miss Lyle said:

"You are fortunate in having such a charming little niece. If I had any of my flesh and blood left to me, I should not feel so desolate at times. My house, my money will come to an end when I die. I have no one to whom I could leave my possessions. I have sometimes been tempted to sell them. And then, again, I've felt when bring a few town friends for rest that perhaps I can do more good with my house than would anyone else. And my tenants look to my coming and are glad to have me here for a bit."

As Orris walked home, she felt she had made a new friend, and she was thankful for the fresh interest that had been put into her life.