Milly and Olly Part 19

But first Milly had drawn mother into a corner where no one could see, and there, with a couple of tears in her two blue eyes, she had whispered in a great hurry, so that Mrs. Norton could scarcely hear, "I don't want to have everything just as _I_ like, to-day, mother. Can't I do what somebody else likes? I'd rather."

Which means that Milly was a good deal excited, and her heart very full, and that she was thinking of how, a year before, her birthday had been rather spoilt toward the end of it by a little bit of crossness and self-will, that she remembered afterward with a pang for many a long day. Since then, Milly had learnt a good deal more of that long, long lesson, which we go on learning, big people and little people, all our lives--the lesson of self-forgetting--of how love brings joy, and to be selfish is to be sad; and her birthday seemed to bring back to her all that she had been learning.

"Dear little woman," said Mrs. Norton, putting back her tangled hair from her anxious little face, "go and be happy. That's what we all like to-day. Besides, you'll find plenty of ways of doing what other people like before the end of the day without my inventing any. Run along now, and climb away. Mind you don't let Olly tumble into bogs, and mind you bring me a bunch of ferns for the dinner-table--and there'll be two things done at any rate."

So away ran Milly; and all the morning she and Olly and father scrambled and climbed, and raced and chatted, on the green back of old Brownholme.

They went to say good-morning to John Backhouse's cows in the "intake,"

as he called his top field, and they just peeped over the wall at the fierce young bull he had bought at Penrith fair a few days before, and which looked as if, birthdays or no birthdays, he could have eaten Milly at two mouthfuls, and swallowed Olly down afterwards without knowing it.

Then they climbed and climbed after father, till, just as Olly was beginning to feel his legs to make sure they weren't falling off, they were so tired and shaky--there they were standing on the great pile of stones which marks the top of the mountain--the very tip-top of all its green points and rocks and gra.s.sy stretches. By this time the children knew the names of most of the mountains around, and of all the lakes.

They went through them now like a lesson with their father; and even Olly remembered a great many, and could chatter about Helvellyn, and Fairfield, and Langdale Pikes, as if he had trudged to the top of them all himself.

Then came the getting down again. Father and Milly and Olly hand-in-hand, racing over the short fine gra.s.s, startling the little black-faced sheep, and racing down the steep bits, where Milly and Olly generally tumbled over in some sort of a heap at the bottom. As for the flowers they gathered, there were so many I have no time to tell you about them--wood-flowers and bog-flowers and gra.s.s-flowers, and ferns of all sizes to mix with them, from the great Osmunda, which grew along the Ravensnest Beck, down to the tiny little parsley fern. It was all delightful--the sights and the sounds, and the fresh mountain wind that blew them about on the top so that long afterward Milly used to look back to that walk on Brownholme when she was seven years old as one of the merriest times she ever spent.

Dinner was very welcome after all this scrambling; and after dinner came a quiet time in the garden, when father read aloud to mother and Aunt Emma, and the children kept still and listened to as much as they could understand, at least until they went to sleep, which they both did lying on a rug at Aunt Emma's feet. Milly couldn't understand how this had happened at all, when she found herself waking up and rubbing her eyes, but I think it was natural enough after their long walk in the sun and wind.

At four o'clock nurse came for them, and when they had been put into clean frocks and pinafores, she took them up to the farm. Milly and Olly felt that this was a very solemn occasion, and they walked up to the farmhouse door hand-in-hand, feeling as shy as if they had never been there before. But at the door were Becky and Tiza waiting for them, as smart as new pins, with s.h.i.+ning hair, and red ribbons under their little white collars; and the children no sooner caught sight of one another than all their shyness flew away, and they began to chatter as usual.

In the farmhouse kitchen were Bessie and Charlie, and such a comfortable tea spread out on a long table, covered with a red and black woollen table-cloth instead of a white one. Becky and Tiza had filled two tumblers with meadow-sweet and blue campanula, which stood up grandly in the middle, and there were two home-made cakes at each end, and some of Sally's brown eggs, and piles of tempting bread and b.u.t.ter.

Each of the children had their gift for Milly too: Becky had plaited her a basket of rushes, a thing she had often tried to teach Milly how to make for herself, and Tiza pushed a bunch of wild raspberries into her hand, and ran away before Milly could say thank you; Bessie shyly produced a Christmas card that somebody had once sent to her; and even Charlie had managed to provide himself with a bunch of the wild yellow poppies which grew on the wall of the Ravensnest garden, and were a joy to all beholders.

Then Mrs. Backhouse put Milly at one end of the table, while she began to pour out tea at the other, and the feast began. Certainly, Milly thought, it was much more exciting going out to tea at a farmhouse than having children to tea with you at home, just as you might anywhere, on any day in the year. There were the big hens coming up to the door and poking in their long necks to take a look at them; there were the pigeons circling round and round in the yard; there was the sound of milking going on in the shed close by, and many other sights and sounds which were new and strange and delightful.

As for Olly, he was very much taken up for a time with the red and black table-cloth, and could not be kept from peering underneath it from time to time, as if he suspected that the white table-cloth he was generally accustomed to had been hidden away underneath for a joke. But when the time for cake came, Olly forgot the table-cloth altogether. He had never seen a cake quite like the bun-loaf, which kind Mrs. Backhouse had made herself for the occasion, and of which she had given him a hunch, so in his usual inquisitive way he began to turn it over and over, as if by looking at it long enough he could find out how it was made and all about it. Presently, when the others were all quietly enjoying their bun-loaf, Olly's shrill little voice was heard saying--while he put two separate fingers on two out of the few currants in his piece:

"_This_ currant says to _that_ currant, 'I'm here, where are you? You're so far off I can't see you nowhere.'"

"Olly, be quiet," said Milly.

"Well, but, Milly, I can't help it; it's so funny. There's only three currants in my bit, and cookie puts such a lot in at home. I'm pretending they're little children wanting to play, only they can't, they're so far off. There, I've etten one up. Now there's only two.

That's you and me, Milly. I'll eat you up first--krick!"

"Never mind about the currants, little master," said Mrs. Backhouse, laughing at him. "It's nice and sweet any way, and you can eat as much of it as you like, which is more than you can of rich cakes."

Olly thought there was something in this, and by the time he had got through his second bit of bun-loaf he had quite made up his mind that he would get Susan to make bun-loaves at home too.

They were just finis.h.i.+ng tea when there was a great clatter outside, and by came the hay-cart with John Backhouse leading the horse, and two men walking beside it.

"We're going to carry all the hay in yon lower field presently," he shouted to his wife as he pa.s.sed. "Send the young 'uns down to see."

Up they all started, and presently the whole party were racing down the hill to the riverfield, with Mrs. Backhouse and her baby walking soberly with nurse behind them. Yes, there lay the hay piled up in large c.o.c.ks on the fresh clean-swept carpet of bright green gra.s.s, and in the middle of the field stood the hay-cart with two horses harnessed, one man standing in it to press down and settle the hay as John Backhouse and two other men handed it up to him on pitchforks. Olly went head over heels into the middle of one of the c.o.c.ks, followed by Charlie, and would have liked to go head over heels into all the rest, but Mr.

Norton, who had come into the field with mother and Aunt Emma, told him he must be content to play with two c.o.c.ks in one of the far corners of the field without disturbing the others, which were all ready for carrying, and that if he and Charlie strewed the hay about they must tidy it up before John Backhouse wanted to put it on the cart. So Olly and Charlie went off to their corner, and for a little while all the other children played there too. Milly had invented a game called the "Babes in the Wood," in which two children were the babes and pretended to die on the gra.s.s, and all the rest were the robins, and covered them up with hay instead of leaves. She and Tiza made beautiful babes: they put their handkerchiefs over their faces and lay as still as mice, till Olly had piled so much hay on the top of them that there was not a bit of them to be seen anywhere, while Bessie began to cry out as if she was suffocated before they had put two good armfuls over her.

Presently, however, Milly got tired; and she and Tiza walked off by themselves and sat down by the river to get cool. The water in the river was quite low again now, and the children could watch the tiny minnows darting and flas.h.i.+ng about by the bank, and even amuse themselves by fancying every now and then that they saw a trout shooting across the clear brown water. Tiza had quite left off being shy now with Milly, and the two chattered away, Milly telling Tiza all about her school, and Jacky and Francis, and Spot and the garden at home; and Tiza telling Milly about her father's new bull, how frightened she and Becky were of him, and how father meant to make the fence stronger for fear he should get out and toss people.

"What a happy little party," said Aunt Emma to mother looking round the field; "there's nothing like hay for children."

By this time the hay-cart was quite full, and crack went John Backhouse's whip, as he took hold of the first horse's head and gave him a pull forward to start the cart on its way to the farm.

"Gee-up," shouted John in his loud cheery voice, and the horse made a step forward, while the children round cried "Hurrah!" and waved their hands. But suddenly there was a loud piteous cry which made John give the horse a sudden push back and drop his whip, and then, from where they sat, Milly and Tiza heard a sound of crying and screaming, while everybody in the field ran toward the hay-cart. They ran too; what could have happened?

Just as they came up to the crowd of people round the cart, Milly saw her father with something in his arms. And this something was Becky--poor little Becky, with a great mark on her temple, and her eyes quite shut, and such a white face!

"Oh, mother! mother!" cried Milly, rus.h.i.+ng up to her, "tell me, mother, what is the matter with Becky?"

But Mrs. Norton had no time to attend to her. She was running to meet Mrs. Backhouse, who had come hurrying up from another part of the field with the baby in her arms.

"She was under the cart when it moved on," said Mrs. Norton, taking the baby from her. "We none of us know how it happened. She must have been trying to hand up some hay at the last moment and tumbled under. I don't think her head is much hurt."

On ran Mrs. Backhouse, and Milly and her mother followed.

"Better let me carry her up now without moving her," said Mr. Norton, as Mrs. Backhouse tried to take the little bundle from him. "She has fainted, I think. We must get some water at the stream." So on he went, with the pale frightened mother, while the others followed. Aunt Emma had got Tiza and Milly by the hand, and was trying to comfort them.

"We hope she is not much hurt, darlings; the wheel did not go over her, thank G.o.d. It was just upon her when her father backed the horse. But it must have crushed her I'm afraid, and there was something hanging under the cart which gave her that knock on the temple. Look, there is one of the men starting off for the doctor."

Whereupon Tiza, who had kept quiet till then, burst into a loud fit of crying, and threw herself down on the gra.s.s.

"Nurse," called Aunt Emma, "stay here with these two poor little ones while I go and see if I can be of any use."

So nurse came and sat beside them, and Milly crept up to her for comfort. But poor little Tiza lay with her face buried in the gra.s.s and nothing they could say to her seemed to reach her little deaf ears.

Meanwhile, Aunt Emma hurried after the others, and presently caught them up at a stream where Mr. Norton had stopped to bathe Becky's head and face. The cold water had just revived her when Aunt Emma came up, and for one moment she opened her heavy blue eyes and looked at her mother, who was bending over her, and then they shut again. But her little hand went feebly searching for her mother, who caught it up and kissed it.

"Oh, Miss Emma, Miss Emma," she said, pointing to the child, "I'm afeard but she's badly hurt."

"I hope not, with all my heart," said Aunt Emma, gently taking her arm.

"But the doctor will soon be here; we must get her home before he comes."

So on they went again, Mr. Norton still carrying Becky, and Mr.

Backhouse helping his wife along. Mrs. Norton had got the baby safe in her motherly arms, and so they all toiled up the hill to the farmhouse.

What a difference from the merry party that ran down the hill only an hour before!

They laid Becky down on her mother's bed, and then Aunt Emma, finding that Mrs. Norton wished to stay till the doctor came, went back to the children. She found a sad little group sitting in the hay-field; Milly in nurse's lap crying quietly every now and then; Tiza still sobbing on the gra.s.s, and Olly who had just crept down from the farmhouse, where he and Charlie had seen Becky carried in, talking to nurse in eager whispers, as if he daren't talk out loud.

"Oh, Aunt Emma," cried Milly, when she opened the gate, "is she better?"

"A little, I think, Milly, but the doctor will soon be here, and then we shall know all about it. Tiza, you poor little woman, Mrs. Wheeler says you must sleep with them to-night. Your mother will want the house very quiet, and to-morrow, you know, you can go and see Becky if the doctor says you may."

At this Tiza began to cry again more piteously than ever. It seemed so dreary and terrible to her to be shut out from home without Becky. But Aunt Emma sat down on the gra.s.s beside her, and lifted her up and talked to her; with anybody else Tiza would have kicked and struggled, for she was a curious, pa.s.sionate child, and her grief was always wild and angry, but n.o.body could struggle with Aunt Emma, and at last she let herself be comforted a little by the tender voice and soft caressing hand. She stopped crying, and then they all took her up to the Wheelers's cottage, where Mrs. Wheeler, a kind motherly body, took her in, and promised that she should know everything there was to be known about Becky.

"Aunt Emma," said Milly, presently, when they were all sitting in the conservatory which ran round the house, waiting for Mr. Norton to bring them news from the farm, "how did Becky tumble under the cart?"

"She was lifting up some hay, I think, which had fallen off, and one of the men was stooping down to take it on his fork, and then she must have slipped and fallen right under the cart, just as John Backhouse told the horse to go on."

"Oh, if the wheel _had_ gone over!" said Milly, shuddering. "Isn't it a sad birthday, Aunt Emma, and we were so happy a little while ago? And then I can't understand. I don't know why it happens like this."

"Like what, Milly?"