The Boys and I: A Child's Story for Children

"Deary me, deary me," exclaimed Mrs. Partridge, "what a very sharp-spoken young lady! I'm sure no offence was meant, only I was sorry to 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 boy and 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 have been some confused remembrance of our playing at ladies, for Mrs. Partridge had a sort of peepy way of talking, something like the way we did when we were pretending ladies.

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

Then Mrs. Partridge, who all the time _meant_ to be very kind to us, you see, took us up-stairs to our rooms--they were on the second floor--above what is always the drawing-room floor in a London house, I mean, and they looked to the front. But to-night of course-- I don't know 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 or not. All we did notice was that in the one which was to be the day nursery the fire was burning cheerfully, and the table was neatly spread with a white cloth for tea.

Tom, who was looking very sad, sat down on a chair by the fire and pulled 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 have been nearly so bad, mother's going away and us coming to London. I don't like London. I think it would have been much better, Audrey, if we had died--you and I when we had the measles."

And stooping down to kiss my poor little tired brother, I saw that two big tears were forcing themselves out of his eyes; in spite of all his trying to be manly, and not to let Mrs. Partridge see him crying, he could not keep them in any longer. I threw my arms round him and kissed his poor red eyes. "Horrid old woman," I said to myself, "to say he had ugly 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 till mother came back again, and that _nobody_ should dare to vex them or make them cry. I felt, in that minute, as if I had grown quite big and strong to take care of them--as if I were really their mother. I kissed him 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 take some 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 had died."

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

"Perhaps they would have taken him with them," said Tom dreamily. Then he 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 was some comfort. Still, altogether, I felt what he said was true; it was very sad for us.

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CHAPTER IV.

THE AIR-GARDEN.

"But children, good though they may be, Must cry sometimes when they are sad."

It was not quite so bad the next morning. That is one good thing of being a child, I suppose--at least mother says so--things never are quite so bad the next morning!

We all slept very soundly; we had three nice little beds in one rather big room, which we thought a very good plan; and the first thing that woke me was feeling something bump down on the top of me all of a sudden. It was Racey. He looked quite bright and rosy, all his tiredness gone away; and then you know he was really such a _very_ little boy--only five--that he could not be expected to remember very long about poor mother going away and all our trouble.

"Audrey," he said, in what he meant to be a whisper, but it was a very loud one, "Audrey, I don't want to wake Tom. Poor Tom's so tired. Audrey, let me get in 'aside you."

He had clambered out of his bed and into mine somehow; and though it was against rules to get into each other's beds--mother had had to make the rule because Tom and I got in the way of waking each other so dreadfully early to tell stories--I could not this first morning refuse to let the poor little thing get in under the nice warm clothes to be cuddled.

"Oh dear, Racey, what cold little toes you've got," I said. "You haven't been running about without your slippers on, surely?"

"Just for a minute; don't tell Pierson," said Racey. "I wanted to look out of the window. Audrey, this is such a funny place--there's no trees and no garden--and lots and lots of windows. Is all the windows Uncle Geoff's?"

"Oh, no--there are lots of other people's houses here," I said. Poor little Racey had never been in a town before. "In London all the houses are put close together. You see, Racey, there are such a lot of people in London there wouldn't be room for all the houses they need if each had a garden."

"But some peoples has little gardens--_air_ gardens," said Racey eagerly. "There's one I sawed out of the window."

"_Air_ gardens! What do you mean, Racey?" I said.

"High up--up in the air," he explained. "Sticking up all of theirselves in the air."

"Oh, I know what you mean--you mean a little glass place for flowers," I said. "I've seen those--once I was in London before with mother, in a cab, when we were coming from Tonbridge Wells."

"_Were_ you?" said Racey, greatly impressed. "Was Tom?"

"No, not Tom--only me. When we're dressed, Racey, I'd like to look out of the window at the air garden."

"Come _now_," said Racey. But I firmly refused to get out of bed till Pierson came, as it was one of the things mother had particularly told me not to do--we had so often caught cold with running about like that. And it was a good thing we didn't, for just then Pierson came into the room looking rather cross, and if she had found us running about without our slippers on she'd have been crosser still.

"It's time to get up, Miss Audrey," she said in a melancholy tone, "past half-past-eight; though I'm sure no one would think so by the light. I hope you've had a good night--but--" as she suddenly caught sight of my little visitor, "whatever's Master Racey doing in your bed?"

Racey ducked down under the clothes to avoid being caught, and Pierson was getting still crosser, when fortunately a diversion of her thoughts was caused by Tom, who just then awoke.

"Oh dear!" he said with a great sigh, "oh dear! Will the ship have gone yet?"

He was hardly awake, but he sat up in bed, and his big sad eyes seemed to be looking about for something they could not find. Then with another sigh he lay down again. "I was dreaming," he said, "that we got a letter to say we were to go in the train again to South--South--that place where the ship goes from, and that Uncle Geoff was the man on the engine, and he kept calling to us to be quick or the ship would be gone. Oh dear, I wish it had been true!"

Poor Tom! Pierson forgot her crossness in trying to comfort him. Of us all I'm sure he was her favourite, even though he was very mischievous sometimes. We all went on talking about Tom's dream till Pierson had got back into quite a good temper--a good temper to _us_, that is to say, for she at last confided to us what had made her so cross. She "couldn't abide that Mrs. Partridge," that was the burden of her song. "Stupid, fussy old thing," she called her, "going on about Master Tom's eyes last night. I dare say I shouldn't say so to you, Miss Audrey, but I can't help owning I _was_ glad you spoke up to her as you did. She's that tiresome and interfering,--as if I didn't know my own work! I'll be sorry to leave you, my dears, when the time comes, which it will only too soon; but I can't say that there'd be peace for long if that stupid old woman was to keep on meddling."

We were all full of sympathy for Pierson, and indignant with Mrs. Partridge.

"Never mind, Pierson," we said, "we won't take any notice of her. We'll just do what _you_ tell us."

So breakfast was eaten in the most friendly spirit, and after breakfast, our hands and faces being again washed, and our hair receiving a second smooth, we were taken down-stairs to be inspected by Uncle Geoff.

He was busy writing in a small room behind the dining-room--a rather gloomy, but not uncomfortable little room. A fire was of course burning brightly in the grate, but for a minute or two we all three stood near the door, not venturing further in, for though Uncle Geoff had replied "come in" to Pierson's tap, he did not at once look up when we made our appearance, but went on finishing his letter. Some mornings he had to go out very early, but this was not one of them; but instead of going out, he had a great many very particular letters to write, and it was difficult for him to take his mind off them even for a minute. I understand that now, but I did not then; and I was rather offended that the boys and I should be left standing there without his taking any notice. Racey kept tight hold of my hand, and Tom looked up at me with a surprised, puzzled expression in his eyes. I didn't so much mind for myself, but I felt very sorry for the boys. I was not at all a shy child, as I have told you, and I had rather a sharp temper in some ways; so after fidgeting for a moment or two I said suddenly--

[Illustration: 'May we come near the fire, if you please?']

"May we come near the fire, if you please; or if you don't want us may we go back to the nursery?"

For an instant still Uncle Geoff took no notice. Then he laid down his pen and looked at us--at me in particular.

"What did you say, my little lady?"

I got more angry. It seemed to me that he was making fun of me, and that was a thing I never could endure. But I did not show that I was angry. I think my face got red, but that was all, and I said again quietly, but not in a very nice tone, I dare say--

"I wanted to know if we might go back to the nursery if you don't want us, or at least if we might come near the fire. It isn't for me, it is for the boys. Mother doesn't like them to stand in a draught, and there's a great draught here."

"Dear me, dear me, I beg your pardon," said Uncle Geoff, with a comical smile. "Come near the fire by all means. My niece and nephews are not accustomed to be kept waiting, I see."

He pulled forward a big arm-chair to the fire as he spoke, and lifting Racey up in his arms, popped him down in one corner of it. He was turning back for Tom, but Tom glanced up at me again from under his eyelids in the funny half-shy way he did when he was not sure of any one. I took his hand and led him forward to the fire.

"Tom is quite big," I said. "He's never counted like a baby."

Again Uncle Geoff looked at me with his comical smile. I felt my face get red again. I am ashamed to say that I was beginning to take quite a dislike to Uncle Geoff.

"He's just as horrid as Mrs. Partridge," I said to myself. "I'm sure mother wouldn't have left us here if she had known how they were going to go on."

But aloud I said nothing.

Uncle Geoff himself sat down on the big arm-chair, and took Racey on his knee.

"So you're to be the boys' little mother--eh, Audrey?" he began. "It's a great responsibility, isn't it? You'll have a good deal to do to teach _me_ my duty too, won't you?"

I did not answer, but I'm afraid I did not look very amiable. Uncle Geoff, however, took no notice. He drew Tom gently forward, and as Tom did not pull back at all, I let go his hand. Uncle Geoff made him stand between his knees, and, placing a hand on each of his shoulders, looked rather earnestly into his eyes. Tom fidgeted a little--he stood first on one leg, and then on the other, and glanced round at me shyly; but still he did not seem to mind it.

"He's his mother's boy," said Uncle Geoff, after a minute or two's silence. "He has her pretty eyes."

That was a lucky remark. After all, Uncle Geoff must be much nicer than Mrs. Partridge, I decided, and I drew a little nearer. Uncle Geoff looked up at me.

"And you, Audrey?" he went on. "No, you're not like your mother."

"I'm not nearly as pretty," I said.

"You're more like your father," he continued, without noticing my remark. "And Racey--who is he like? Where did you get that white skin, and that golden--not to say red--hair, sir?" he said, laughing. "Whom _is_ he like?"

"Like hisself," said Tom, smiling.

"Yes, that is quite certain," said Uncle Geoff. "And now, my friends, having looked you all over, so that for the future I shall know which is which, tell me how you are going to amuse yourselves to-day?"

We looked at each other--that is to say, the boys looked at me and I at them, but we did not know what to say.

"It is too bad a day for you to go out, I fear," continued Uncle Geoff, glancing up at the window from which only other houses' windows and a very dull bit of gray sky were to be seen. "It's not often we have bright days at this time of year in London. But we must try to make you happy in the house. Partridge will get you anything you want. Did your mother tell you about the tutor?"

"Yes, Uncle Geoff," I said, meekly enough, but feeling rather depressed. I did not at all like being referred to _Partridge_ for anything we wanted. "Mother told us we were to have lessons every day from a gentleman. She said it would be better than a lady, because Tom is getting so big."

"Of course; and by next year he'll be going to school, perhaps."

"But that won't be till after papa and mother come home," I said hastily. "Mother never said anything about that--and of course they'll be home long before next year," I continued, a misgiving darting through me which I refused to listen to.

Uncle Geoff looked a little troubled, but he just nodded his head.

"Oh, of course, there's lots of time to think of Tom's going to school," he said, as he rose from his chair. "I must be off, I fear," he went on. "You know I am a dreadfully busy person, children, and I shall not be able to see as much of you as I should like. But with Partridge, and your tutor, and your nurse--by the by, I must not forget about her having to leave before long. You know about that--your mother told me you did?"

"Yes," I replied. "Pierson is to be married on the tenth of next month. But--" I hesitated.

"But what?" said Uncle Geoff.

"I wish we needn't have a nurse. I'm _sure_ I could dress and bath the boys, and we'd be so happy without a nurse."

Uncle Geoff laughed heartily at this, and I felt very vexed with him again. And just then unfortunately a knock came at the door, and in answer to Uncle Geoff's "Come in," Mrs. Partridge made her appearance smiling and curtesying in a way that made me feel very angry.

"Good morning, Partridge," said Uncle Geoff; "here I am surrounded with my new family, you see."

"Yes, sir, to be sure, and I hope they are very good young ladies and gentlemen, and won't trouble their kind uncle more than they can help," said Mrs. Partridge. Uncle Geoff was used, I suppose, to her prim way of speaking, for he seemed to take no notice of it. He began buttoning his great-coat before the fire.

"You'll look after them, and make them happy, Partridge," said he as he turned to the door.

"Of _course_, sir," she replied. And then in a lower voice she added as she followed him out of the room, "I sha'n't be sorry, sir, when Pierson, the nurse, goes. She's so very interfering like."

"Ah well, well, it's only for a very short time, and then we must look out for some suitable person. My little niece, by the by, has been begging me not to get a nurse at all; she says she's sure she could wash and dress the boys herself--what do you think of that, Partridge?"

"It's all that Pierson, sir," said Partridge; "it's all jealousy of another coming after her, you may be sure. Not but that,"--by this time Uncle Geoff and the old servant were out in the hall, but my ears are very sharp, and one can always catch one's own name more quickly than anything else--"not but that Miss Audrey's far too up-spoken for her age. She has been spoilt by her mother very likely--the only girl."

"Perhaps," said Uncle Geoff. "Her father did tell me she was rather an odd little girl--a queer temper if taken the wrong way. But we must do our best with them, poor little things. Miss Audrey seems very fond of her brothers, any way."

Partridge said nothing more aloud, but it seemed to me I caught a murmured "far too fond of managing and ordering them about for her age," and I boiled with indignation, all the deeper that I was determined not to show it. I was angry with Mrs. Partridge most of all, of course, and angry with Uncle Geoff. I was not angry with papa-- I did not mind his having told Uncle Geoff that I had a queer temper, for I knew it was true, and I did not mind Uncle Geoff knowing it; but I was horribly angry at his talking me over with Partridge, and making fun of what I had said, and most determined that she should not interfere with either me or the boys. So when we went up to the nursery again I called my little brothers to me.

"Tom and Racey," I said, "Mrs. Partridge is a cross, unkind old woman. You mustn't mind what she says--you must only do what I tell you. Mother told me I was to take care of you, and she would like you to do what I say--you will, won't you?"

"Yes, of course," said both the boys. "Of course we love you, Audrey, and we don't love that cross old thing one bit." "But," pursued Tom, looking rather puzzled, "aren't we to do what Uncle Geoff says?"

"And Pierson?" said Racey.

"Pierson's soon going away. It doesn't matter for her," I said.

"But Uncle Geoff?" repeated Tom, returning to the charge. "Don't you like him, Audrey?" he continued half timidly, as if afraid of having a different opinion from mine. "I think he's nice."

"Oh, I dare say he's nice," said I. "Besides, any way, he's our uncle, whether he's nice or not. But we sha'n't see him often--he's so busy, you know. It doesn't matter for him. It's only that I want you always to count me first--like as if I was instead of mother, you know. That's what mother wants."

"Yes, dear Audrey, _dear_ Audrey," cried both boys at once. And then they put their arms round my neck, and hugged me so that we all three rolled on the floor, and Pierson, coming in just then, would no doubt have scolded us, but that her mind was too full of Mrs. Partridge and her offences to take in anything else.

"It isn't _her_ house," she said, "and I'm sure to hear how she goes on any one might think it was."

"What does she say, Pierson?" I asked, coming close to Pierson, and looking up in her face.

"Oh, nonsense--grumbling about what an upset it's been in the house, children coming; having to take down the bed in this room, and get new little ones, and all that sort of talk. And worry-worrying at me to see that you don't scratch the walls, or go up and down-stairs with dirty boots on, and all such nonsense. And after all, what could be more natural than your coming here? Dr. Gower is own brother to your papa, and no one else belonging to him. But I'm sure if it wasn't for what Harding would say," Harding was Pierson's going-to-be husband, "and that I really _durstn't_ put him off again, I'd--I'd--I really don't know what I'd do."

"What would you do? Do tell me, Pierson," I entreated.

"I don't know, Miss Audrey. I'm silly, I suppose; but it seems to me if your mamma could have left you with me in some little house in a nice country place, we might have been ever so happy."