CHAPTER V.
A NEW TROUBLE.
"Ah! folks spoil their children now; When I was a young woman 'twas not so."
That first day passed--but drearily enough. Pierson was really verykind--kinder than we had ever known her. Not that she had ever been_un_kind; only grumbly--but never unkind so that the boys and I could be_afraid_ of her, and when mother was with us, mother who was _always_cheerful, it didn't matter much if Pierson did grumble.
But to-day she was kinder than ever before, almost as if she had knownby magic what was going to happen; and through her kindness there was asort of sadness which made me like her all the better. I knew she keptthinking about poor mother--about its being her last day in England--inthe same country as her poor little boys and girl, and so did I. _All_the day it was never out of my head for one inch of a minute, though Ididn't say so, not to make the boys think of it like that. For in theirfunny way they seemed already to fancy papa and mother _quite_ away,almost as if they were in China, and I didn't want to unsettle thatfeeling, as it would only have made it worse for them again.
Pierson unpacked our toys, and after all, Tom did cheer up a little whenhe saw his soldiers and his fort, which had been best toys at home, butwhich mamma told Pierson were to be every-day ones in London, both toplease Tom and because there had been such a great throwing away of oldones, not worth packing, that really we should have had none to playwith if our best ones had been kept _for_ best. Mother had had such agood thought about our toys--almost as soon as it was really fixed aboutpapa and her going away, she had begun packing up the good ones, so thatwhen we got them out in London they seemed quite new, for it was nearlytwo months since we had had them, and it was quite a pleasure to seethem again, though a little sadness too. Every one that came out of thebox, there was something to say about it.
"My best paint-box that mother gave me last Christmas," Tom would say,or "My dear little pony horse with the little riding man, that Muzziemade a jacket for," Racey cried out. While as for me, every doll thatappeared--dolls of course were my principal toys, and I had quite a lotof them--reminded me of some kind thought that perhaps I had not noticedenough at the time. Racey was perfectly silly about his horses--he lovedthem so that he almost provoked Tom and me--and we looked at each otheras much as to say, "He doesn't understand." He really was, I suppose,too little to keep the thought of our trouble long in his mind, eventhough he had cried so dreadfully the day before, and I think the sightof his forgetting, as it were, made me all the sadder.
But when the toys were all arranged in their places, and the long daywas over at last, even Racey grew dull, and unlike himself. It had beena very long day--we had not been out of our own rooms at all, exceptjust for those few minutes in the morning, to see Uncle Geoff. He ran upto see us again in the evening--about four o'clock, our tea-time, thatis to say--and said he was sorry the weather was so bad, he hoped itwould be better to-morrow, but even as he was speaking to us theman-servant came up to say he was wanted again, and he had to run off.And I'm sure all the afternoon the bell had never left off ringing, andthere were lots and lots of carriages came to the door, with ladies andgentlemen and even children, to see him. If we could have watched thepeople getting out and in of the carriages it would have been fun, butfrom the day nursery window we couldn't see them well, for standing upon the window-sill was too high, and standing on a chair was too low. Itwasn't till some time after that, that we found out we could see thembeautifully from the bedroom window, by putting a buffet in an oldrocking-chair that always stood there. And by four o'clock it was quitedark!
After tea we all sat round the fire together--_the_ thought, I know, wasstill in Pierson's mind and mine--whether it was in Tom's or not, Idon't know, for he didn't say anything. Only we were all tired and dull,and Racey climbed up on to Pierson's knee, and told her he would go awayto the country with her--"London was such a ugly place." And Piersonsighed, and said she wished he could. And then she began telling usabout the village in the country, that was her home, and where she wasgoing back again to live, when she was married to Harding, who was theblacksmith there. Her father had been a farmer but he had died, and hermother was left very poor, and with several children. And Pierson wasthe eldest, and couldn't be married to Harding for a long time, becauseshe had to work for the others, so perhaps it was all her troubles thathad made her grumpy. But now all the others were settled--some were inAmerica and some were "up in the north," she said. We didn't know whatthat meant--afterwards Tom said he thought it meant Iceland, and Raceythought it meant the moon, but we forgot to ask her. So now Pierson wasgoing at last to be married to Harding.
"Is he _all_ black?" I remember Tom asked.
"All black, Master Tom," Pierson said, rather indignantly. "Of coursenot--no blacker than you or me, though perhaps his hands may be brown.But once he's well cleaned of the smoke and the dust, he's a very nicecomplexion for a working man. Whatever put it in your head that he wasblack?"
"'Cause you said he was a blacksmith," said Tom, "and I thought it wassomething like a sweep, and sweeps never can get white again, can they?It says so in the Bible."
I burst out laughing. "He means about the Ethiopian," I said, butPierson didn't laugh. That was one of the things I didn't like abouther. She never could see any fun in anything, and she still lookedrather offended at Tom. "All black," she repeated. "What an idea!"
I tried to put her in a good humour again by asking her to tell us abouther house. It was a very pretty cottage, she said, next door to thesmithy, but of course a different entrance, and all that.
"Has it roses on the walls?" I asked, and "Yes," Pierson replied."Beautiful roses--climbing ones of all colours. And there's a nicelittle garden in front. It's a very pretty cottage, but most of thecottages in our village are pretty. It's a real old-fashioned village,Miss Audrey--I would like you to see it--it's not so very far fromLondon."
"Will you go there in the same railway we came in?" asked Tom.
"Oh no," said Pierson, "it's quite the other way fromElderling."--Elderling was our old home. "It's only two hours and a halffrom town, by express. You go to Coppleswade Junction, and then it's awalk of five miles to Cray--that's the name of the village, andCoppleswade's the post-town."
"Perhaps," said I, "perhaps some time we'll come and see you, Pierson."
Pierson smiled, but shook her head. She was at no time of a verysanguine or hopeful disposition.
"It would be nice," she said, "too nice to come true, I'm afraid. Iwould like to show you all to mother. Poor mother, she's counting thedays till I come--she's very frail now, and she's been so long alonesince Joseph went to America. But it's getting late, my dears. I mustput you to bed, or we'll have Mrs. Partridge up to know what we'reabout."
"Horrid old thing!" I said. And when Pierson undressed us, and hadtucked us all in comfortably, we kissed her, and repeated how much wewished that we were going to live in the pretty village of Cray withher, instead of staying in this gloomy London, with Mrs. Partridge.
I have often thought since, how queer it was that Pierson should havebeen so very nice that last night, and from that what a great lot ofthings have come! You will see what I mean as I go on. I can't helpthinking--this is quite a different thought, nothing to do with theother--that without knowing it people _do_ sometimes know what is goingto happen before it does. It seemed like that that night, for I hadnever known Pierson quite so nice as she was then.
Late that evening--it seemed to me the middle of the night, but itcouldn't really have been more than nine or ten--I was half wakened upby sounds in the day nursery next door. I heard one or two peopletalking, and a low sound, as if some one were crying, but I was sosleepy that I couldn't make up my mind to wake up to hear more, but forlong after that it seemed to me I heard moving about, and a sort ofbustle going on. Only it was all faint and confused-- I dreamt, orthought I dreamt, that some one stood by the side of my bed crying, butwhen I half opened my eyes, there was no one to be seen by the tinylight
of the little night lamp that mother always let us burn in ourroom. By the next morning I had forgotten all I had heard, and verylikely if I had never had any explanation of it, it would not have comeinto my mind again.
But the explanation came only too soon. We woke early that morning--wegenerally did--but we were used to lie still till Pierson came to us.But she had been so kind the night before that we felt bolder thanusual, and after having talked in a whisper to each other for some time,and hearing no sound whatever from her room, we decided that she musthave overslept herself and that she would not be vexed if we woke her.So "Pierson! Pierson!!" we called out, softly at first, then louder. Butthere was no answer, so Tom, whose cot was nearest the door, jumped upand ran to her room. In a moment he was back again--his face lookingquite queer.
"What is the matter, Tom?" I exclaimed.
"She's not there," he cried, "and she's not been there all night. Herbed isn't unmade."
I sat up in alarm.
"Oh dear!" I said. "I do believe she's gone away, and that was the noiseI heard. Oh I do believe that horrid Mrs. Partridge has made Uncle sendher away."
But almost before the words were out of my mouth we heard some onecoming up-stairs.
"Quick, Tom," I said, and in his hurry Tom clambered into my bed, and Ihid him under the clothes.
Stump, stump-- I think I forgot to tell you that Mrs. Partridge wasrather lame from rheumatism, and sometimes used a stick--stump, stump,in she came, feeling rather cross, no doubt, at having had to get up somuch earlier than usual.
"Good morning, my dears," she said.
"Good morning, Mrs. Partridge," I replied, feeling very brave anddetermined.
"I have come all the way up-stairs to tell you that you must be verygood indeed to-day, and not give any trouble, for your nurse, Pierson,has had to go away. A friend from her home came to fetch her late lastnight, because her mother was dying. So she left at once, to catch thefirst train this morning. Of course I couldn't have had the housedisturbed at four or five o'clock in the morning and----"
"But she'll come back again--she'll come back again in a few days, won'tshe?" said Tom, in his anxiety forgetting where he was, and popping uphis round head from under the clothes.
Mrs. Partridge hesitated.
"I can't say----" she was beginning when she suddenly perceived that Tomwas not in his own quarters. "Master Tom," she exclaimed. "What businesshave you in your sister's cot? What tricks to be sure--deary me, dearyme! Go back to your own bed, sir, at once."
Tom showed no inclination to move.
"Yes, Tom," I said, and these first words, I think, astonished Mrs.Partridge very much. "Yes, Tom, go back to your own bed." Tom looked atme in surprise, but prepared to obey me, nevertheless. "But," I added,turning fiercely to Mrs. Partridge, "it isn't to please _you_ he shouldget into his own bed--it's only because mother told us always to stayquiet in the morning before Pierson came to dress us, and we mean to doeverything mother told us."
"And I should like to know what your mother would say to hearing youtalk like that?" said Mrs. Partridge. "It's not at all like a prettybehaved young lady to fly into such tempers to any one as kind as can beto you--your uncle should be told of it, but I've never been one to makemischief. Now you must all three lie still and make no noise, till Sarahcan find time to come up and dress you."
"I want to det up now," said Racey undauntedly. "I'se been awake neverso long."
"You can't get up now, my dear," said Mrs. Partridge. "The house hasbeen upset enough already--the whole work can't be stopped to get you upand for my part I don't hold with such early gettings up, and wantingyour breakfasts so ridiculous soon."
She turned and left the room, and for a minute or two none of us spoke.Then Tom, who after all had not decamped to his own quarters, havingstopped short in excitement at my speech to Mrs. Partridge, which hadalso had the effect of putting him out of her head--Tom gave me a push,and said inquiringly,
"Audrey?"
"Well, Tom?"--I dare say I spoke impatiently.
"Audrey, speak. What are you thinking?"
"I don't know what I'm thinking," I said. "At least I do, but I thinkI'd better not say it."
"Why not?" said Tom.
"Because it's no good."
"Audrey," said Tom again, "you're rather cross, and I'm _so_ unhappy."
"Oh, _dear_ Tom," I said, "don't speak like that. It's just because Ilove you so, and I can't bear you to be unhappy, that I'm cross."
"_I'm_ unhappy too," said Racey's high-pitched little voice from thecorner of the room. "I'm vrezy unhappy, and I do so want to det up."
A sudden idea struck me. "You shall get up," I said. "I'm sure mothernever would have wanted us to stay in bed hours after we were awake.Jump up, Racey, and Tom too; _I_'ll dress you."
For his hair was very tuggy this morning.]
Up jumped both boys with the greatest delight, and we set to work. Therewas no hot water! That we had quite forgotten, and it was too cold towash properly without it, even though we always had a cold bath too.Racey made rather a fuss, but Tom was very good, and at last we got thedressing finished without any worse misfortunes than the breaking ofTom's comb, for his hair was very tuggy this morning, and thespilling a great lot of water on the floor. This last catastrophetroubled us very little, for the carpet was not very new or pretty, butwe were sorry about the comb, as now that Pierson was away we did notknow to whom to apply for a new one! Just as I was telling the boys togo into the day nursery and warm themselves at the fire, forgetting thatno one had come to make it, a knock came to the door and in marchedSarah, looking decidedly cross. Her face cleared, however, when she sawus all dressed.
"So you've been and dressed yourselves," she said. "Well, that's veryclever of you, though I don't know what Mrs. Partridge will say."
But it was something for Sarah to be pleased, and she set to work tomake the fire with good-will, for we were very cold and our hands wereblue and red.
We were helping Sarah to the best of our ability, when stump, stump,up-stairs again came Mrs. Partridge, and oh, how cross she was when shesaw that her orders had been disobeyed; only, fortunately, it all fellon me. I was a naughty disobedient child--it was all I that made mybrothers naughty--it was high time some one took me in hand, that wasclear. What she meant by this last remark I did not quite understand,and I dare say that was a good thing, for if I had thought it was anyreflection on _mother_, I should have answered in a way which would nothave made Mrs. Partridge think any better of my temper.
As it was, I answered nothing. If I had spoken at all I should haveburst out crying, and that I was determined Mrs. Partridge should notsee me do. So when she was tired of scolding she went away, and Sarah,who had made an excuse of fetching our breakfast to get out of the way,came back again in a few minutes with the tray.
I was too angry and unhappy to eat, but Tom and Racey, though lookingsomewhat soberer than usual, ate with a good appetite. Towards the endof breakfast I found I had no handkerchief, and I jumped up and went tothe chest of drawers in the other room to fetch one. There a greatsurprise met me. Pinned to the top handkerchief of the little pile was anote addressed to me, "Miss Audrey Gower." I knew at once what it was.It was from poor Pierson--her only way of saying good-bye. Though I wasnearly nine years old I could not read writing very well, and thisPierson knew, for she had written it very large and plain. Poor thing,it must have taken her a good while, and late at night, too, when shehad all her packing to do. I tore open the envelope. This was thelittle letter. Oh, how pleased I was to see it!
"MY DEAR MISS AUDREY, AND MY DEAR LITTLE BOYS,--I am half broken-hearted to go away like this and leave you with strangers, but what can I do? My poor mother is dying, and begging for me to come. I would promise to come back for a week or two any way, but I am afraid Mrs. Partridge will make your uncle think it better not. But I beg you, dear Miss Audrey, to try to write to me, and tell me how you all are, and do not be afraid to say if you ar
e unhappy, for I would try to do something; and any way I could write to your mamma.
"Your faithful nurse, "ESTHER PIERSON."
I read it over two or three times. Then I took it into the nursery wherethe boys were calling for me, and read it over again, word by word, toTom. He listened with his big eyes staring up at me.
"How nice of Pierson," he said at the end. "Audrey, won't you write andtell her how _horrid_ Mrs. Partridge has been?"
"We must think about it," I said, solemnly.
"Would you know how to _dreck_" (he meant direct) "the letter?"continued Tom.
I hadn't thought of that; and my face fell. But Pierson had had moreforesight than I had supposed.
"Cray was the name of the village--near--near--oh, I can't remember nearwhere," I was saying, when Tom, who had been examining the letter withgreat attention, exclaimed, "Audrey, there's more writing here on theother side that you haven't seen--C. R.--I believe it's the 'drecktion."
And so it was.
"ESTHER PIERSON, _Flure's Cottage_, _Cray_, _Near Coppleswade_.
is my adress," Pierson had added. Of course there was only one _d_ in"address."
"What a good thing, isn't it?" said Tom. But just then we heard some onecoming up-stairs. In a fright I stuffed the letter into the front of mydress; it was the first time in my life I had ever had anything toconceal, and I felt at a loss how to do it. The steps turned out to beSarah's.
"Miss Audrey," she said. "You've to go down-stairs, please, to youruncle's study. He wants to see you before he goes out, and he's in agreat hurry."
"Me alone?" I said.
"Yes, Miss; nothing was said about the young gentlemen; and I'm sure,"she added, in a lower tone, "I'm sure Mrs. Partridge has been makingmischief. But never you mind, Miss, speak up for yourself."
I did not answer, but ran quickly down-stairs.
I was not the least afraid, but I had very bitter feelings in my heart.Why should I be called naughty, and disobedient, and impertinent, andall that, for the first time in my life? I knew I had sometimes a rathercross temper, but when mother had spoken to me about it, I had alwaysfelt sorry, and wished to be better. And since we had come to London, Ihad really tried to be good, and to carry out what mother had said aboutmaking the boys happy, and being kind to them. No one had any right tobegin scolding me when I had _not_ been naughty. This was what I wassaying to myself as I ran down-stairs, and though I was not afraid, yetthe feeling of Pierson's letter was a great comfort to me. I was notaltogether friendless.
When I knocked at the study door, Uncle Geoff called out, "Come in," atonce. He was standing on the hearth-rug, all ready--his coat buttoned upto the top--to go out. I saw at once that he was quite different fromthe day before.
"Audrey," he said, as soon as he saw me, "I do not want to be severe orharsh to you, but it is necessary you should understand me. And it isbetter you should do so at once. I wish to be kind to you, as kind as Ican be, but you, on your side, my little girl, must do your part, andthat part is _perfect obedience_. I am very little at home, as you know,and I cannot constantly direct you and the boys myself, but in myabsence you must obey Mrs. Partridge, who is very kind, and good, andknows what is right for children. It is unfortunate that your nurse hashad to leave so suddenly, though, if it was _she_ that put it into yourmind to disobey Mrs. Partridge, it is better she has gone. Now youunderstand me-- I expect that you will do your best to-day to be goodand obedient, and to give as little trouble as you can."
He turned as if to leave the room--he did not seem to expect an answer.Words were burning on my lips-- I wanted to ask him if he wished us tolisten to unkind remarks on mother, and unkind reproaches for thetrouble our coming had given, from Mrs. Partridge, who he said was sogood. I wanted to tell him that we _had_ tried to be good, hard as itwas on us to be sent suddenly among strangers-- I wanted to tell himthat I wished to do _everything_ mother had said, that I wished toplease him, and to love him, but when I looked up at his face, and sawthe stern expression it had, I felt it was no use, and I too turnedaway.
But just at the door Uncle Geoff stopped and looked back. I suppose thehard set look of unhappiness on my childish face touched him. He turned,and stooping down put his arm round me, and kissed me.
"Don't look so miserable, Audrey," he said. "_That_ is not what I wishat all." I looked up at him again--his face looked ever so much kinder.I was on the point of saying some nice words, like "Uncle Geoff, I dowant to be good," or something of that sort, which perhaps would havehelped to make him find out that Mrs. Partridge was really not managingus as he wished, when suddenly I felt the paper--Pierson's letter Imean--rustle a little under the pressure of his hand. I felt my facegrow red. Suppose he found the letter and took it away? I was so littleaccustomed to conceal anything that I felt quite guilty, and in my fearI drew away a little from his arm. He said nothing, but he must havebeen chilled, for he took away his arm, and turned to go, and as he leftthe room, I was almost sure that I heard him say in a half whisper,"Strange child! I am afraid we shall have trouble with her."
Boys and I: A Child's Story for Children Page 5
