CHAPTER X THE FAIRY RING

LOVEDAY, meanwhile, was having a most interesting and beautiful time, and she and Aaron had become great friends. They had some little tiffs and quarrels too, of course, but not very serious ones.

The most serious perhaps was that when they disagreed about their names, when Loveday was certainly rather unkind, and Aaron grew angry and was rude. They were both tired, and very hungry; so hungry that it seemed as though the dinner hour was delaying on purpose.

“I don’t know why people think they mustn’t eat till the clock strikes so many times,” said Loveday crossly; “I think it would be much more sensible to eat when you are hungry.”

“You’ve got to know what time dinner is to be, or you wouldn’t know when to put things on to cook. I should have thought you’d have known that,” said Aaron; and he spoke in a tone that annoyed Loveday more than anything—a kind of superior, older tone, as though he were talking to a baby.

Loveday did not reply, but sat and looked at Aaron as if in deep thought; her eyes sparkled wickedly, though. “I do think,” she said at last, speaking very slowly and distinctly, “that yours is the ugliest name I ever heard. I can’t think how any one could choose such a name!”

She was sitting on the sand, her elbow on her knee, her chin in her hand. Aaron was lying near her, flat on his back. When he heard her he sat up very straight, his face quite red with anger. Loveday was cool and calm, and spoke with a deliberate scorn that hurt him more than anything else she could have done.

His name was that of his father and grandfather, and he had been rather proud of it hitherto.

“I—I think it’s a fine name,” he stammered; “so does everybody but you; and you can’t say anything, yours is ugly enough—it’s a silly name too.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” said Loveday calmly. “I think it is a very pretty name, so does everybody; but of course you don’t know, you are so young.”

“Yes, I do,” blustered Aaron; “I know as well as anybody, and I call it ugly, a silly girl’s name,” with great scorn.

“Well, of course, I shouldn’t be called by a boy’s name,” she retorted scornfully; “but if I had been a boy, and they’d christened me Aaron, why, I—I wouldn’t answer to it!”

“Wouldn’t you!” scoffed Aaron; “you’d have been only too glad to.”

“There are so many pretty names too,” went on Loveday, ignoring his last remark, and gazing at him in a musing way. “Douglas, and Gerald, and Ronald, and——”

“I’d be ’shamed to be called by any of them, silly things! Just like a girl’s!”

“Yes, but they aren’t—they’re for boys; you might just as well say my name was like a boy’s—it is rather like some.” Then, after looking at him thoughtfully for a moment, she added slowly, “I think I shall call you ‘Adolphus,’ Aaron is so ugly.”

“If you do, I won’t answer,” cried Aaron, springing to his feet, really angry now; “you ain’t going to call me out of my name. If you do, I’ll—I’ll call you Jane!”

Loveday giggled. “I don’t mind a bit!” she said gaily; “I am christened that already, and my sister is called Priscilla Mary, and you are going to be called Aaron Adolphus.”

“I’m not! I shan’t speak to you, and I won’t answer to it,” began Aaron, when suddenly his mother’s voice called to them across the sands.

“Come along, children—dinner is ready at last!”

Loveday sprang at once to her feet. “Come along, Adolphus,” she said naughtily. If Aaron had but laughed, and taken no notice of her teasing, Loveday would probably have found no fun in it, and have stopped very soon, but he was very cross indeed, and sulked over his dinner, and the afternoon might have been spoilt if Bessie had not been so good-tempered and kind.

“We are going to change our names,” said Loveday, beginning her teasing again as soon as they had begun to eat.

“Oh!” said Bessie, “and what are you to be called now?”

“Well, Aaron is to be called Adolphus, only he doesn’t seem to like it, and I am called Jane, and you—let me see, I’ll call you—” Loveday thought and thought, but could not think of anything that quite pleased her.

“Well, I don’t mind what it is,” said Bessie, “as long as you don’t call me ‘Bread and Cheese,’ and eat me.” It was an old saying, but a new one to the children, and they both laughed so much that Aaron forgot his sulks, and Loveday her teasing.

“I will call you Mother Dutch Cheese,” laughed Aaron.

“Then there won’t be much of me left by to-morrow,” said Bessie, pretending to look frightened.

“I will call you—” began Loveday, speaking very slowly, for she was trying all the time to think of something very funny to say.

“I wonder,” said Bessie, “if, instead of thinking what you shall call me, you would like to pay a call for me this afternoon?”

The children looked at her, not quite understanding. Bessie explained:

“I want Aaron to go up to Mr. Winter’s with a message, and I thought you would like to go too, Miss Loveday.”

“I’d love to!” cried Loveday, who had been longing ever since she came to Porthcallis to go up the cliff-path to the very top, mounting the little steps, and holding on by the little rail. “When shall we go? Now?”

“Finish your dinner first, and sit still for a bit; then I will tidy you both, for Mr. Winter’s housekeeper, Mrs. Tucker, is a very noticing body.”

After the meal was over, and Aaron had said grace, and they had with great difficulty kept quiet for a little while, Bessie began to tidy them. Aaron, beyond having a good wash and his hair brushed, had only a clean holland tunic put on, but Loveday was anxious to make more of a toilette.

“Don’t you think,” she said, “that I had better put on this?” dragging out from the drawer a pretty little frock of white silk muslin with blue harebells all over it.

“Oh no,” said Bessie; “one of your little cotton over-alls will be much the best.”

Loveday looked disappointed and doubtful; in her heart she felt sure that Bessie did not know what was correct.

“But if Mr. Winter was to see me——”

“Oh dear, you needn’t trouble about Mr. Winter; he keeps well out of the way if there is anybody about; but if he did happen to see you, he wouldn’t know whether you’d got on silk or cotton, or blue or yellow.”

“I think he’d notice my white silk sash with the roses on it.”

“Well, I don’t, missie. But if he did, he’d only think it was very unsuitable for going up and down cliff-paths; and so it is, too. If you were to slip, why, you’d most likely ruin it for ever. Now be a good little girl, and if you want to please Mr. Winter or Mrs. Tucker with your looks, you’ll go in your nice clean print over-all and sun-hat. You shall wear a white belt about your waist, for fear you might trip on your loose frock going up that steep path.”

“‘Don’t let us look any more.’”

Loveday was not satisfied, but she was so pleased and excited at the thought of going to the big, mysterious house where the blinds were always drawn, and the master was never seen, that she had no room for any other feeling, and they started off in great good humour.

Aaron was so afraid that Loveday would remember and call him Adolphus again, that he did all he could to keep her mind off it, and talked incessantly, telling her such wonderful tales.

“If Mrs. Tucker doesn’t keep us too long,” said Aaron, “I’ll show you the Fairy Ring, where they come and dance every night at twelve o’clock. It is right on top of the cliff, and not far from Mr. Winter’s.”

“That will be lovely!” cried Loveday delightedly. “Let’s sit down for a minute; I’m tired.”

So they sat down on one of the little steps, and looked down and around and all about them. Already the cottage seemed ever so far off, and so tiny.

“It looks as if there could be only one little room in it, doesn’t it?” said Loveday. “And oh, how far away the sea looks, and that little boat! Why, it is quite a little teeny-tiny thing. Oh, don’t let’s look any more; it makes my head go round so.”

“I’ll sit outside,” said Aaron; “it won’t seem so bad then.”

They changed places, but even then Loveday did not like it.

“Let’s go on,” she said, “up where we can’t see any of it.”

So on they went, and at last reached the green grassy top, and a bit of road which led to the gate of Mr. Winter’s house.

Though Loveday had heard about the closed house and the drawn blinds, it still gave her quite a shock when she saw it. There was such a look of desolation, and sadness, and neglect about the whole place. On the side facing the sea, the flower-beds were overgrown with weeds and flowers which straggled about in a wild tangle, clinging together and choking each other; the drawn blinds were faded, the frames of the fast-shut windows were cracked, and badly in want of some coats of paint. A rose-bush, that at one time must have almost covered the front of the house, had fallen, perhaps during the storms of the past winter, and as it fell so it lay, twisted and broken, and choking the wretched plants which were beneath it.

Loveday felt quite saddened by the sight of it all, and the story of the poor drowned boy and his heart-broken father became terribly real to her—so real that she longed to be able to do something to comfort the poor man. “If only he would open his blinds and windows, and have his garden tidied up, I’m sure he wouldn’t feel so miserable. I think I should cry all day long if I lived here,” she whispered.

The situation of the house itself seemed almost too lonely to be borne. There was no other dwelling-place, or sign of human being, within sight, only a wide, wide space of bare brown fields on two sides; the grassy cliff-tops with the sea in the distance on the third; and on the fourth nothing but the heaving, calling sea; while the wind, always blowing there, swept along unchecked, winter or summer, storm or calm, keeping up an incessant wailing around the house; and the wail of the wind and the call of the gulls alone broke the silence.

It was not to be wondered at that a feeling of awe fell on whomsoever entered that gate. It fell on both the children now, and they walked up softly, almost stealthily, for the sound of their footsteps on the white pebbles seemed to jar in that sad silence. Aaron led the way, and Loveday followed, holding fast to his tunic. She was glad now that she had not worn her smart frock or sash; for even she, young as she was, felt that they would have been out of place there and then.

Aaron led the way to what was presumably the front door, but a door so bare of paint, so neglected looking, that Loveday thought it could never be used. The stones of the steps were green, and the weeds grew up between them. But in answer to Aaron’s knock the door was quickly opened by Mrs. Tucker, the housekeeper. She looked keenly at Loveday, but she did not say anything, and when she had taken the note Aaron had brought, and heard his message, she went in and closed the door again quite sharply. But in the moment or so it had been open Loveday had had time to catch a glimpse of a big stone hall, and a grandfather’s clock, which ticked with the hollow note clocks in empty houses usually have.

Mrs. Tucker looked so glum and unsmiling that the children were quite glad to get away from her, and they hurried out of the garden much more quickly than they entered it.

Once outside, Aaron seemed to lose his awe, and his spirits returned, but Loveday did not so soon recover. She felt she wanted to do something for Mr. Winter to make him feel less sad and uncomfortable, yet she felt quite helpless, especially since she had seen Mrs. Tucker. If one had to get past her before one could see him, it really seemed as though it never could be done.

“Now then for the Fairy Ring,” said Aaron, as soon as they got outside.

In their relief at getting away from that grim place, they both took to their heels and ran over a great stretch of short grass, burnt brown and slippery by the hot sun, until they came to a large level space on almost the edge of the cliff, and there on the brown coarse turf stood out a large ring of grass, so lush and rich and green that there must surely have been some hidden spring which fed it, or the fairies must indeed have been at work.

“It keeps green like that ’cause the fairies dance there,” said Aaron, with pride and awe.

Loveday jumped carefully over the green ring and stood in the centre.

“I expect they’d be angry if I stepped on it—wouldn’t they?” she asked.

They both spoke softly, as though half afraid of disturbing or offending the “little people.” Aaron jumped over too and joined her, and both sat down in the middle of the ring and tried to picture the wonderful scenes that took place there at night.

“I wonder where they live by day, and which way they come here,” she asked, looking about her eagerly.

“I reckon they come every way,” said Aaron. “Some live in the flowers and things, and some in caves and shells, I believe.”

“Do you think the piskies come too, and the buccas, and all?”

Aaron shook his head.

“I reckon those that have got to work don’t get no time for dancing.”

“I think I like the piskies the best,” said Loveday thoughtfully; “but, of course, I love them all!” she added hastily, in a louder voice, for she did not want to hurt any one’s feelings, and fairies were very easily offended, she had heard. “Of course, I love them all; but I do love the piskies very much, ’cause they work and play too; they come and do people’s work for them and look after them, and then they dance, and are such jolly little things.”

“They take care of my daddy,” said Aaron gravely. “Sometimes he’s got to be out to sea all night, fishing, and it is dark, and the wind blowing, and the rain coming down like anything.”

“My daddy has got to be out all night too, very often,” chimed in Loveday, not to be outdone in importance by Aaron, “and he’s got to drive all through the thunder and lightning and snow, and sometimes it is so slippery Betty can’t hardly walk, but daddy’s got to go ’cause somebody is ill.”

“But he doesn’t have to go on the sea,” said Aaron, “and p’r’aps be drowned.”

“He has to drive, and horses tumble down, and run away, and wheels come off and all sorts of things,” said Loveday, not to be outdone.

“But there are sharks and whales and—and torpedoes at sea,” went on Aaron; but Loveday pretended not to hear him; and suddenly it occurred to him that, if he aggravated her too much, she might begin to call him “Adolphus” again; so he hurriedly changed the conversation.

“I wish I could see some piskies at work—don’t you?” said Aaron.

“Oh yes!” sighed Loveday. “Do you think we could if we stayed up till twelve o’clock one night?”

“I don’t know; I never heard of anybody hereabouts seeing them. Perhaps they don’t come to these parts now.”

“I don’t think they do, or they would tidy Mr. Winter’s garden for him and weed his path. It is very untidy, isn’t it? It looks just like a place no one lives in.”

Aaron nodded; he had never seen it in any other condition, so was not so much impressed as was Loveday.

“I wish I could make it nice for him. I’d like to make it look so nice—all in one night—that when he came out he’d be—oh! ever so s’prised, and he’d wonder and wonder who had done it, and he’d say: ‘Why, a fairy must have been here at work.’ That’s what father and mother say sometimes.”

Aaron looked at her with interest. He liked to hear her stories of her home, and what she did there. Some of them were very wonderful. But Loveday had no stories to tell that afternoon; she was very thoughtful and quiet, and sat for quite a long time without speaking. Aaron began at last to grow tired of staying still, and was just about to get up, when she suddenly turned to him, all excitement:

“I’ve been thinking, and I’ve thought of—oh, ever such a nice plan. Let’s play that we are piskies, and come up in the night and tidy Mr. Winter’s garden for him, and make him think it is a fairy that has done it, and—and then we’d come again, and he’d think the fairies had been again. Shall we, Aaron? Oh, do say yes; and it will be a secret, and nobody must ever know, and everybody will wonder—and oh, it will be simply, simply splendid.”

Aaron listened eagerly, quite carried away by her enthusiasm. Loveday, with her ideas, her wild plans, and strange thoughts, was a constant wonder to him, and where she led he followed—if he could.

“Won’t all the folks be wondering and talking when it gets about?” he cried excitedly, “and won’t it be funny to be listening to them, and we knowing all the time all ’bout it! Oh, it’ll be grand!”

For quite a long while they sat and discussed their plans delightedly, and of course there were a great many plans to be made. Aaron it was who first saw difficulties in the way of carrying them out.

“But how’re we going to get out in the night?” he cried. “Mother and father would hear us. ’Twould be dark, too, and if we was to slip and fall climbing up the cliff, we’d be killed as dead as—as dead as pilchards.”

“Pilchards don’t fall down cliffs,” said Loveday scornfully.

But she was obliged to admit that there were difficulties which would not be very easy to get over, and they walked about with very anxious, serious faces and dampened spirits—it did seem bitter to be balked now.

“I think I know what we can do,” said Loveday at last; “isn’t it light very early in the morning now?”

“Yes, it’s full day by four o’clock, and earlier,” said Aaron.

“Well, we’ll get up then, and we can get out of my window quite easily, and then we can run up the cliff and be piskies till it’s time to come home; then we’ll run down and jump into bed, and then, when Bessie calls us, we’ll be asleep; and we’ll get up, and nobody won’t know anything. We can do that, can’t we?”

“Yes,” agreed Aaron, “I reckon we might; but I think we’d best be going home now—it feels like tea-time, and mother will be wondering where we’ve got to.”