Boys and I: A Child's Story for Children

by Mrs. Molesworth

  CHAPTER III.

  THREE LITTLE TRAVELLERS.

  "What will she do for their laughter and plays, Chattering nonsense, and sweet saucy ways?"

  I will now try to go straight on with my story. But I cannot help sayingI do not find it quite so easy as I thought. It is so very difficult tokeep things in order and not to put in bits that have no business tocome for ever so much longer. I think after this I shall always be evenmore obliged than I have been to people that write stories, for reallywhen you come to do it, it isn't nearly so easy as you'd think, thoughto _read_ the stories, it seems as if everything in them came just ofitself without the least trouble.

  I told you that after it was really settled and known, and all arrangedabout the goings away, things seemed to go on very fast. In one waythey did and in one way they didn't--for now when I look back to it, itseems to me that that bit of time--the time when it was all quitesettled to _be_ and yet hadn't come--was very long. I hear big peoplesay that children get quickly accustomed to anything. I think big peopledo too. We all--papa and mother, and the boys and I, and even Piersonand the other servants--got used to feeling something was going to come.We got used to living with people coming to see the house, and every nowand then great vans coming from the railway to take away packing-cases,and an _always_ feeling that the day--the dreadful day--was going tocome. Of course I cannot remember all the little particular thingsexactly, but I have a very clear remembrance of the sort of way it allhappened, so though I may not be able to put down just the very words wesaid and all that, still it is telling it truly, I think, to put down asnearly as I _can_ the little bits that make the whole. And even some ofthe littlest bits I can remember the most clearly--is not that queer? Ican remember the dress mother had on the last morning, I can remember_just_ how the scarf round her neck was tied, and how one end gotrumpled up with the way Tom clung to her, and hugged and hugged her withhis arms round her, so tight, that papa had almost to force him away.

  But in my usual way I am going on too fast--at least putting things outof their places. I do not think I in the least understood then, what Ido so well understand now, how terribly hard it must have been formother to leave _us_; how much more dreadful her part of it was than anyone else's. I must have seemed very heartless. I remember one day whenshe was packing books and music and odd things that she would not ofcourse have taken with her just for a journey, I said to her, "Why,mother, what a lot of books you are taking! And all those table-coversand mats and things--you never take those when we go to the sea-side."Papa was standing by and mother looked up at him. "Need I take them?"she said. "It is as if I were going to make a home out there, and oh,how can it ever be like a home? How could I wish it to be? The barer andless home-like the better I should like it."

  Papa looked troubled.

  "We have to think of appearances, you know," he said. "So many peoplewill come to see you, and it would not do to look as if we took nointerest in the place."

  Mother said no more. She went on with her packing, and I think a goodmany big tears were packed among the things in that box.

  I asked her one day how long she and papa would stay away. "Longer thanwe stay at the sea-side in summer?" I said. "Three months?--as long asthat, mother? Any way you'll be home before our birthdays."

  For, rather funnily, all our three birthdays came close together--all inone week. We thought it the most important time of the whole year, andwe counted everything by the birthday week, and when mother didn'tanswer at once "Oh yes, we shall certainly be home by the birthdayweek," I felt quite astonished. But just then something or other put itout of my head, and I forgot to speak of it again. I can't think now howI could be so silly in some ways as I was then--it is so queer toremember.

  Well--the day _did_ come. We--the boys and I--were the first to leaveour dear old home, even though our journey was to be such a shortone--only three hours to London. Papa and mother were to start on_their_ journey the next day, so we were not to see them again. They hadbeen at Uncle Geoff's the week before, seeing the rooms we were to have,and settling everything; and I think they thought it was better not tosee us again, after we were in his house, but to get the parting over inour old home. I suppose they thought we would get over it more quicklyif the journey and the newness of it all was to come after, and Idaresay they were right.

  I can't tell you about the saying good-bye. It was so bad for us, thoughwe could not understand it at all properly of course, that for mother itmust have been awful. And then fancy the long day after we had all left.The empty nurseries, the sort of _sound_ of quietness through thehouse--the knowing we should never, never more be all together in theold happy way--that we should be changed _somehow_ before she saw usagain. For three years (and poor mother knew it would be three years) isa long time at our ages, Racey would have learnt to speak plain, and Tomwould be such a big boy that he would have got out of the way of"hugging," perhaps, and Audrey even, that was me, you know, might haveforgotten her a little--all these thoughts must have gone throughmother's mind that dreadful afternoon, when papa had taken us to thestation and seen us off to London under Pierson's care. Oh _poor_ littlemother, she has told me all about it since, and I must say if ever I ama big lady and have children of my own, I hope these dreadful havings togo away won't happen to me.

  Well--we were in the train. Our eyes were so red that any one might haveseen something sad had happened to us, but we didn't care. Tom's eyeswere the worst of all, and generally he would do anything rather thanlet his red eyes be seen; but to-day he didn't care, we were too full ofbeing sorry to care whether people noticed our eyes or not. And at lastwhen papa had kissed us all three once more for the very last time,reaching up to the railway-carriage window, and the boys and I holdinghim so tight that he was nearly choked; at last it was all over, all thelast tiny endings of good-byes over, and we three were--it seemed to usas far as we could understand it in our childish way--alone in theworld.

  There was no one else in the railway-carriage--Pierson of course waswith us--she had put off being married for two months, so that she couldsee us settled and get the new nurse into our ways, as she called it;she too had been crying, so that she was quite a fright, for her nosewas all bumpy-looking with the way she had been scrubbing at it and hereyes. She was very kind to us; she took Racey on her knee, and let Tomand me sit close up to her; and if she had had three arms she would haveput one round each of us I am sure.

  "Poor dears!" she said, and then she looked so very sad herself that Tomand Racey took to comforting _her_, instead of expecting her to comfortthem. I _was_ sad really--three poor little things like us going awaylike that; away from everything we had ever known, away from our nicebright nursery, where everything a mother could do to make childrenhappy our mother had done; away from our dear little cots, where motherused to kiss us every night; and our little gardens where we had workedso happily in the summer; away to great big London, where among thethousand faces in the street there was not one we had ever seen before,where other little boys and girls had their fathers and mothers, whileours were going far, far away, to strange countries where they wouldfind no little boys and girls like their own, no Audrey and Tom andRacey.

  I thought of all this in a half-stupid way, while I sat in therailway-carriage with my arm round Tom's neck and my head leaning onPierson's shoulder. We had never cared _very_ much about Pierson, butnow that she was the only thing left to us, we began to cling to hervery much.

  "I am so glad you've not gone away, Pierson," I said, and Pierson seemedvery pleased, for I didn't very often say things like that.

  "Poor dear Miss Audrey," she said in return. "Poor dear," seemed theonly words she could think of to comfort us with. And then we all grewsilent, and after a while it began to get dark, for the days were shortnow, and Tom and Racey fell asleep, just sobbing quietly now and then intheir breathing--the way little children do, you know, after they havebeen crying a good deal; and I sat quite still, staring out at thegloomy-looking coun
try that we were whizzing through, the bare trees anddull fields, so different from the brightness and prettiness of even aflat unpicturesque landscape on a _summer_ day, when the sun lights upeverything, and makes the fresh green look still fresher and moretempting. And it seemed to me that the sky and the sun and all theoutside things were looking dull because of our trouble, and that theywere all sorry for us, and there seemed a queer nice feeling in thinkingso.

  And after a while I began making pictures to myself of what I would doto please mother while she was away; how I would be so good to Tom andRacey, and teach them to be so good too; how I would learn to be alwaysneat, and how I would try to get on with music, which I didn't muchlike, but which mother was so fond of that she thought I would get tolike it when I was bigger and had got over the worst part. And then Ibegan thinking of the letters I would write to mother, and all I wouldsay in them; and I wondered too to myself very much what Uncle Geoffwould be like, for I had not seen him for some time, and I couldn'tremember him properly at all; and I wondered what his house would belike, and what sort of a nursery we should have, and what our newgoverness would be like, and how everything in our new home would be. Iwent on wondering till I suppose my brain got tired of asking questionsit couldn't answer, and without knowing that I was the least sleepy, Itoo fell fast asleep!

  I was busy dreaming--dreaming that I was on board the ship with papa andmother, and that Uncle Geoff was a lady come to see the house; in mydream the ship seemed a house, only it went whizzing along like arailway, and that he had a face like Pierson's, and he would say "poordear Miss Audrey," when another voice seemed to mix in with mydreaming. A voice that said--

  "Poor little souls--asleep are they--all three? Which of them shall Ilook after? Here nurse, you take the boys, and I'll lift out MissAudrey."

  And "Wake up, Miss Audrey, my dear. Wake up. Here's your uncle comehimself to meet you at the station. I had no idea, sir, we were so nearLondon, or I'd have had them all awake and ready," said Pierson, whonever had all her ideas in order at once.

  There was nothing for it but to wake up, though I was most unwilling todo so. I was not at all shy, but yet in the humour I was in then I feltdisinclined to make friends with Uncle Geoff, and I wished he hadn'tcome to the station himself. He lifted me out, however, very kindly; andwhen I found myself standing on the platform, in the light of the lamps,I could not help looking up at him to see what he was like. I feltbetter inclined to like him when he put me down on my feet, for I hadbeen afraid he was intending to carry me in his arms till he put me intothe cab, and that would have offended me very much.

  "Well, Audrey, and are you very tired?" he said kindly.

  I looked up at him. He was not very tall, but very strong-looking, andhad rather a stern expression, except when he smiled; but just now he_was_ smiling. I remembered what mother had said to me about being verygood with Uncle Geoff, and doing all he told me. So I tried to speakvery nicely when I answered him.

  "No, thank you, Uncle Geoff, I am not very tired, but I am rathersleepy; and I think the boys are very sleepy too."

  "All right," said Uncle Geoff, "that is a trouble that can soon becured. Here nurse," he went on, turning to Pierson, "I'll take MissAudrey on with me in my carriage, which is waiting; but there is onlyroom for two in it. So my man will get a cab for you and the boys andput the luggage on it."

  Pierson was agreeing meekly, but I interfered.

  "If you please, Uncle Geoff," I said, "mayn't I stay, and come in thecab too? I don't like to leave the boys, because mother says I'm_always_ to take care of them now."

  "Miss Audrey, my dear--" began Pierson, in reproof, but Uncle Geoffinterrupted her. He did not seem at all vexed, but rather amused. I didnot like that, I would almost rather he had been vexed.

  "Never mind, nurse," he said. "I like children--and grown people toofor that matter--to speak out. Of course you may stay and come in thecab if you would rather, Audrey. But in that case I fear I shall not seeany more of you to-night. I have one or two serious cases," he went on,turning to Pierson, "and may be very late of coming home. But no doubtMrs. Partridge will make you comfortable, and Audrey here seems a hostin herself. Good-night, little people."

  He stooped and kissed us--kindly but rather hurriedly--and then he putus all into a cab, and left the servant who was with him to come afterwith the luggage.

  "It is better not to keep them waiting," he said to Pierson as we weredriving away.

  "Your uncle is very kind and considering," said Pierson; she always said"considering" for "considerate." "I wonder you spoke that way to him,Miss Audrey."

  "I didn't speak any way to him," I said crossly. "I don't see that itwas very kind to want to send me away from the boys. Mother told me Iwas to take care of them, and I'm going to do what she told me."

  "And I'm sure if you're going to teach them to get into naughty tempersand to be so cross, they'd be better without you to take care of them,"said Pierson.

  That was her way; she always said something to make us more crossinstead of saying some little gentle thing to smooth us as mamma did.Nobody ever made me so cross just in that kind of way as Pierson did. Iam sometimes quite ashamed when I remember it. Just then I did notanswer her again or say any more. I was too tired, and I felt that if Isaid anything else I should begin to cry again, and I didn't want Mrs.Partridge to see me with red eyes. Tom and Racey pressed themselvesclose to me in the cab, and Tom whispered, "Never mind, Audrey.Pierson's an ugly cross thing. We'll do what you tell us, always--won'twe, Racey?"

  And Racey said "Yes, always," and then, poor little boys, they bothpatted my hands and tried to comfort me. They always did like that whenPierson was cross, and I don't think she much liked it, and I felt thatit was rather a pity to vex her when she had meant to be kind, but stillI didn't feel much inclined to make friends.

  So we drove on--_what_ a long way it seemed! We had never been in Londonbefore, and the streets and houses seemed as if they would never come toan end. It was a very wet evening; I dare say it looked much less dulland gloomy now than it had been earlier in the day, for the gas lightedup the streets, and the shops looked bright and cheerful. I could notbut look at them with interest, what quantities there were, how nice itwould have been to come to London with mother, and to have gone aboutbuying lots of pretty things; but now it was quite different. And oncewhen I saw from the cab-window a poor, but neatly-dressed little girlabout my own size walking along by her mother, holding her hand andlooking quite happy in spite of the rain, I felt so miserable I could donothing but press more closely the two little hands that still lay inmine, and repeat to myself the promise I had made to mother. "Oh I_will_ try to take care of them and make them happy and good till youcome back," and there was a great deal of comfort in the thought,especially when I went on to make, as I was very fond of doing, picturesof papa and mother coming home again, and of them saying how good Tomand Racey were, and what great care I must have taken of them. I onlywished--especially since she had spoken crossly to me--that it had notbeen settled for Pierson to stay with us. I felt so sure I could takebetter care of the boys than any one else.

  But my thoughts and plans were interrupted by our stopping at last.Uncle Geoff's house was in a street in which there were no shops. It wasa dull-looking street at all times; to-night of course we could seenothing but just the house where we stopped. It looked big and dull toTom and me as we went in; Racey, poor little fellow, didn't knowanything about how it looked, for he had fallen asleep again and had tobe carried in in Pierson's arms. The hall was a regular town househall--you know the kind I mean--not like ours at home, which was nicelycarpeted and had a pretty fireplace, where in winter there was always abright fire to welcome you on first going in; the hall at Uncle Geoff'swas cold and dull, with just oilcloth on the floor, and a stiff halltable and hat-stand, and stiff chairs; no flower-stands or plants about,such as mother was so fond of. And the servant that opened the door wasrather stiff-looking too. She was the housemaid, and her name wa
s Sarah.It was not generally she that had to open the door, but the footman hadgone to the station you know, and perhaps Sarah was cross at having toopen. And far back in the hall an oldish-looking person was standing,who came forward when she saw it was us. She was dressed in black silk,and she had a cap with lilac ribbons. She looked kind but rather fussy.

  "And so these are the dear children," she said. "How do you do, littlemissy, and little master too; and the dear baby is asleep, I see? Andhow did you leave your dear papa and mamma?"

  "Quite well, thank you," said Tom and I together. We squeezed eachother's hands tight; we were determined not to cry before Mrs.Partridge, for we knew it must be her, and by the way Tom squeezed myhand I quite understood that he had not taken a fancy to Mrs. Partridge,and I squeezed his again to say I hadn't either.

  We hated being called master and missy, and of all things Racey hatedbeing called "baby." Oh how angry he would have been if he had beenawake! And then I didn't like her speaking of papa and mother in thatsort of way, as if she would have liked us to say they were very illindeed--she had such a whiney way of talking. But of course we werequite civil to her; we only squeezed each other's hands, and nobodycould see that.

  Mrs. Partridge opened a door on the right side of the hall. It led intothe dining-room. A nice fire was burning there, but still it did notlook cheerful--"not a bit," I said to myself again--that thought was_always_ coming into my head--"not a bit like our dining-room at home."But still it was nice to see a fire, and Tom and I, still holding eachother's hands, went up to it and stood on the rug looking at thepleasant blaze.

  "You've had a cold journey I'm afraid," said Mrs. Partridge.

  "Yes, ma'am, very," said Tom, who fancied she was speaking to him. Heblinked his eyes as he looked up to her, for he had been asleep in thetrain, and coming into the light was dazzling.

  "Dear me," said Mrs Partridge at once, "what weak eyes hehas!"]

  "Dear me," said Mrs. Partridge at once, "what weak eyes he has! What doyou do for them, nurse? He must take them of his mamma, for our younggentlemen always had lovely eyes."

  "I'm sure he doesn't get ugly eyes from mother," I said indignantly."Mother has beautiful eyes, and Tom has nice eyes too. They're notweak."

  "Deary me, deary me," exclaimed Mrs. Partridge, "what a verysharp-spoken young lady! I'm sure no offence was meant, only I was sorryto see little master's eyes so red. Don't they hurt you, my dear?"

  "No thank you, ma'am," said Tom, still holding my hand very tight.

  He didn't quite understand what had been said. He was a very little boyand very sleepy. I wondered what made him say "ma'am" to Mrs. Partridge,for of course he never did in speaking to ladies. I think it must havebeen some confused remembrance of our playing at ladies, for Mrs.Partridge had a sort of peepy way of talking, something like the way wedid when we were pretending ladies.

  Pierson had said nothing. I don't think _she_ liked what the oldhousekeeper said about mother's eyes any better than I did, but she wasvexed with me already, and more vexed still, I suppose, at my "answeringback" Mrs. Partridge, and so she wouldn't speak at all.

  Then Mrs. Partridge, who all the time _meant_ to be very kind to us, yousee, took us up-stairs to our rooms--they were on the secondfloor--above what is always the drawing-room floor in a London house, Imean, and they looked to the front. But to-night of course-- I don'tknow if it is right for me to say "to-night," when I mean _that_ night,but it is easier--we did not notice whether they looked to the front ornot. All we did notice was that in the one which was to be the daynursery the fire was burning cheerfully, and the table was neatly spreadwith a white cloth for tea.

  Tom, who was looking very sad, sat down on a chair by the fire andpulled me close to stand by him.

  "Audrey," he whispered, "I do feel so sad, and I don't like that Mrs.Partridge. Audrey, I can't eat any tea. I didn't think it would havebeen nearly so bad, mother's going away and us coming to London. I don'tlike London. I think it would have been much better, Audrey, if we haddied--you and I when we had the measles."

  And stooping down to kiss my poor little tired brother, I saw that twobig tears were forcing themselves out of his eyes; in spite of all histrying to be manly, and not to let Mrs. Partridge see him crying, hecould not keep them in any longer. I threw my arms round him and kissedhis poor red eyes. "Horrid old woman," I said to myself, "to say he hadugly eyes." And a feeling came over me that I can hardly say in words,that I would put my arms round Tom and Racey and never let them go tillmother came back again, and that _nobody_ should dare to vex them ormake them cry. I felt, in that minute, as if I had grown quite big andstrong to take care of them--as if I were really their mother. I kissedhim and kissed him, and tried to think of something to comfort him.

  "Tom, dear," I said, "do come and have your things off, and try to takesome tea. There are Bath buns, Tom," I added.

  But Tom still shook his head.

  "No thank you, Audrey," he said. "I can't eat anything--I can't indeed.It would have been better, Audrey, it would really, if you and I haddied."

  "But poor Racey," I said. "He would have been all alone--just fancythat."

  "Perhaps they would have taken him with them," said Tom dreamily. Thenhe put his arms round me and leant his little round head on my shoulder.

  "I'm glad I've got _you_, Audrey," he whispered, and in that there wassome comfort. Still, altogether, I felt what he said was true; it wasvery sad for us.