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

As it was, I answered nothing. If I had spoken at all I should have burst out crying, and that I was determined Mrs. Partridge should not see 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 looking somewhat soberer than usual, ate with a good appetite. Towards the end of breakfast I found I had no handkerchief, and I jumped up and went to the chest of drawers in the other room to fetch one. There a great surprise met me. Pinned to the top handkerchief of the little pile was a note 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 was nearly nine years old I could not read writing very well, and this Pierson 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 she had all her packing to do. I tore open the envelope. This was the little 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 are 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 where the boys were calling for me, and read it over again, word by word, to Tom. He listened with his big eyes staring up at me.

"How nice of Pierson," he said at the end. "Audrey, won't you write and tell 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 more foresight than I had supposed.

"Cray was the name of the village--near--near--oh, I can't remember near where," I was saying, when Tom, who had been examining the letter with great attention, exclaimed, "Audrey, there's more writing here on the other 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 one coming up-stairs. In a fright I stuffed the letter into the front of my dress; it was the first time in my life I had ever had anything to conceal, and I felt at a loss how to do it. The steps turned out to be Sarah's.

"Miss Audrey," she said. "You've to go down-stairs, please, to your uncle's study. He wants to see you before he goes out, and he's in a great 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 making mischief. 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, and all that, for the first time in my life? I knew I had sometimes a rather cross temper, but when mother had spoken to me about it, I had always felt sorry, and wished to be better. And since we had come to London, I had really tried to be good, and to carry out what mother had said about making the boys happy, and being kind to them. No one had any right to begin scolding me when I had _not_ been naughty. This was what I was saying to myself as I ran down-stairs, and though I was not afraid, yet the feeling of Pierson's letter was a great comfort to me. I was not altogether friendless.

When I knocked at the study door, Uncle Geoff called out, "Come in," at once. He was standing on the hearth-rug, all ready--his coat buttoned up to the top--to go out. I saw at once that he was quite different from the day before.

"Audrey," he said, as soon as he saw me, "I do not want to be severe or harsh to you, but it is necessary you should understand me. And it is better you should do so at once. I wish to be kind to you, as kind as I can be, but you, on your side, my little girl, must do your part, and that 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 my absence you must obey Mrs. Partridge, who is very kind, and good, and knows what is right for children. It is unfortunate that your nurse has had to leave so suddenly, though, if it was _she_ that put it into your mind to disobey Mrs. Partridge, it is better she has gone. Now you understand me-- I expect that you will do your best to-day to be good and 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 to listen to unkind remarks on mother, and unkind reproaches for the trouble our coming had given, from Mrs. Partridge, who he said was so good. I wanted to tell him that we _had_ tried to be good, hard as it was on us to be sent suddenly among strangers-- I wanted to tell him that I wished to do _everything_ mother had said, that I wished to please him, and to love him, but when I looked up at his face, and saw the stern expression it had, I felt it was no use, and I too turned away.

But just at the door Uncle Geoff stopped and looked back. I suppose the hard 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 wish at 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 do want to be good," or something of that sort, which perhaps would have helped to make him find out that Mrs. Partridge was really not managing us as he wished, when suddenly I felt the paper--Pierson's letter I mean--rustle a little under the pressure of his hand. I felt my face grow red. Suppose he found the letter and took it away? I was so little accustomed to conceal anything that I felt quite guilty, and in my fear I drew away a little from his arm. He said nothing, but he must have been chilled, for he took away his arm, and turned to go, and as he left the 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."

[Illustration]

CHAPTER VI.

WE TRY TO BE GOOD.

"Our sister is quite in her glory, When telling us nice little tales."

[Illustration: He was not a very amusing person.]

As ill-luck would have it, this day also was wet and dreary. I don't know that Mrs. Partridge or Sarah regretted it, for if it had been fine one of the servants would have had to take us out for a walk. But we were very sorry. Anything would have been better than another long dreary day up in the dull nursery. Still we had some variety to-day, for our tutor came to give us our first lesson, which took up two hours. He was not a very amusing person; he was very thin and tired-looking, but he was perfectly gentle, so we liked him well enough. We liked him too for another reason. He said that we were very well on for our ages; and as mother had always taught us herself, we felt quite pleased for him to say so. He left us some lessons to do for the next day, but not much. Long before the afternoon was half over we had finished them, and were wondering whatever we could get to do to help us through all the hours that still remained. This was not a day for Uncle Geoff seeing people in his house, so we had not even the fun of listening to the carriages stopping, and the bell ringing, and trying to peep at the ladies and gentlemen getting out. Sarah was rather kind--she came in and out to see us as often as she could, but of course she had a great deal of work to do, and she said Mrs. Partridge made her work even harder than she needed. Mrs. Partridge did not come up-stairs again herself all day, and of that we were very glad-- I suppose she found the stairs too much for her.

Before the end of that afternoon, I think we had changed our minds about wishing we might have no nurse. Even a rather cross nurse would have been better than none at all. It was very tiresome every time we wanted anything to have to fetch it ourselves, or to have to run out to the landing and stand there till Sarah happened to come in sight. There was no bell in the nursery, at least it was broken, but even if it hadn't been, we shouldn't have dared to ring it. And two buttons came off Racey's boot--both off the same boot, just out of tiresomeness--and he couldn't keep it on properly, and he had to wear cloth boots in the house, because the winter before he had had such bad chilblains, so I had to try to sew them on, and you don't know how I pricked my fingers! I do think there is nothing so horrible as sewing on boot buttons.

And then when Tom and I were doing our writing for Mr. Lingard--that was our tutor--for the next day, Tom would pull the ink close over to him, and I pulled it back to me, and we both got cross, and the end of it was that the ink was all spilt over the table; and oh! it made such a big black pool, and then little streams of it began running to the edge, and would have fallen on to the carpet.

"Oh," said Tom, "I'll wipe it up;" and up he jumped to fetch something to wipe it with, and before I could see what he was about, what do you think he had done? He had seized my Lady Florimel's opera cloak, which was lying on a chair--of course it _shouldn't_ have been lying about, I know--and scrubbed up the ink with it all in a minute. The cloak was black silk outside, so he thought it was just a piece of black stuff lying about--but inside it was lovely pale pink, and of course it was quite spoilt. I was so vexed that I began to cry, and then Tom was dreadfully sorry, and came and hugged and kissed me, and so we made friends again, and the ink spilling sent away our quarrelling any way. And perhaps it was better for Lady Florimel's cloak to be spoilt, than for the carpet, for then we should have had a very great scolding from Mrs. Partridge. It didn't matter for the table, as it just had an oilcloth cover that would not stain. And when we had made friends again, we all climbed up on to the window-sill, and began to wonder what we should do.

"Tom," said Racey, pressing his face flat against the window, so as to see out better, "Tom, have you seen the air-garden?"

"The air-garden," repeated Tom, "what do you mean?"

"He means that little sticking out glass place," I explained, "with flowers and plants in--there, further down on the other side."

"A preservatory," said Tom, rather contemptuously, "why, who would think what you meant, if you say a' air-garden?"

"_I_ zink it's a much prettier name than 'servatory," said Racey indignantly.

I began to be afraid of getting into quarrelling again just from having nothing to do; the big clock on the stair which we could hear from the nursery, had struck only three a few minutes before, and there was still a whole hour to tea. The boys were really tired of all their toys, and I didn't care to play with my dolls. The misfortune to Lady Florimel's cloak had put me out of conceit of them for the present.

"Let's tell each other stories," I said.

"Don't know none," said Tom.

"Well, make them up," said I.

"I know lots," remarked Racey.

"Well, you begin then," said I.

"Oh no," objected Tom, "Racey's stories are _so_ silly. You tell us one, Audrey, and I'll think of one while you are telling it."

"Thank you--how much would you listen to mine, if you were making one yourself all the time?"

"Oh but I _would_ listen--_dear_ Audrey, your stories are always so nice," said Tom, coaxingly; but Racey was so offended at Tom saying his stories were stupid, that he wouldn't speak at all.

"Well, I'll tell one if you'll let Racey tell one too. I don't think his are stupid at all. And if you can think of one, you can tell yours too. Let's all be quiet for five minutes to think of them."

"Mine's all ready," said Racey. "It's about a----"

"Hush, you're not to tell till it's your turn," said Tom sharply, so that Racey looked offended again; and I was in such a hurry to stop their quarrelling, that I had to begin my story before I had got it half settled. I mean before I had thought quite how to tell it rightly, for the story itself was true, as mother had told it me herself.

"Tom and Racey," I said, "I don't think you ever heard the story I am going to tell you. Mother told it to me one day when you weren't in the room. It is about mother's godmother when she was a little girl."

"Mother's godmother's little girl," said Tom, looking rather puzzled.

"No, of course not, you stupid boy," said I, at which Tom looked offended. It seemed as if we couldn't get out of the way of quarrelling that afternoon, and the minute I had said it, I was sorry. "Oh, dear Tom, don't be vexed. I didn't mean to call you stupid," I said, quickly. "I'll tell you how I mean. Mother had a godmother, you know, just like you have Uncle Geoff for your godfather. And mother was called after her godmother, whose name was like mother's of course, as she was called after her. Well, this godmother was partly French and partly English, and of course when she was young, before she was grown up, she was a little girl, just like everybody else."

"Except boys," said Tom very seriously. He was anxious to show me that he was giving his whole attention. "When men are little they're boys, not girls."

"Of course," I said again. "Well, any way, you see now how I mean--this lady, Madame----I forget her last name, it's very hard to say, I'll call her Marie, for that was her first name, and of course when she was little she wasn't called Madame----, well when she was little, she was taken for a visit to her grandmother, who lived in France."

"Didn't she live in France herself?" said Tom; "I thought you said she was French."

"She was partly French--not all. No, I don't think she lived in France. They took her there for a visit, so she couldn't have been living there. She went to stay with her grandmother, I told you, and her grandmother lived in a queer old town, that was as old as--as old as--" I stopped to think of the oldest thing I knew.

"As old as old," suggested Tom.

"As old as twenty grandmothers, all top of each 'nother," said Racey.

This was thought very witty, and we spent a minute or two in laughing at it. Then I started again. "Well, never mind how old it was, any way it was very old, for mother told me she had once been there herself, and the churches and houses were all like old castles, the walls were so thick, and the stones they were made of so grey and worn-looking. And in this old town once a year, there was a great, great, big fair--you know what I mean, boys--people used to come from ever so far, bringing things to sell, and all the biggest streets were set out with little wooden shops, with all the things in. There were even Turkish and Chinese people selling things; and all the people in the town, and the country people round about, used to look forward all the year to the things they would buy at this fair. It wasn't all for buying though; there were lots of show things, animals you know, shows of lions and tigers, and snakes and monkeys, and other shows, like circuses--ladies and gentlemen all dressed up, and even little children riding round and round on beautiful horses, and sometimes dancing up in the air on ropes. And there were music places, and lots of shops too, where you could get nice things to eat--altogether it was very nice. Marie used to go out for a walk every day with her nurse, and she always pulled and pulled till she came the way to where the fair was. But her grandmother told the nurse she must never take Marie to the fair without _her_, because there were sometimes such crowds and crowds of people, that the grandmother was afraid Marie might get hurt some way. Marie cried the day her grandmother said that, because she wanted very much to go to spend some money that some one had sent her, or given her; perhaps her father had sent it her in a letter for her birthday--I think that was it. She was only five years old, quite a little girl, so it was no wonder she cried. And so her grandmother promised she would take her the next day if it was fine; and it was fine, so Marie set off to the fair with her grandmother, and her nurse walked behind. It must have been a _very_ funny place mother told me, for besides all the Turkey people, and Chinese, and Spanish, and all that, there were all the funny dresses of the country people themselves. The women had high caps, all stuck up with wires, and bright coloured skirts, and velvet bodies. I know what they were like, because mother had a doll once that her godmother had sent her dressed that way, and mother remembered it quite. I wish we could see a picture of that fair now, don't you, Tom? how funny it would be, and even that little Marie's dress would look funny and old-fashioned now!"

"What would it be like?" said Tom.

"I don't know. I dare say it would be something like the little tiny pictures there used to be in the drawing-room, hanging up in velvet cases on the wall--mini--something mother called them, of papa's aunts when they were little. They had white frocks, and blue sashes, tied right under their arms, and their hair all curling."

"Oh yes, I remember," said Tom. "Go on, Audrey, I can fancy Marie quite well."

"Well, she went trotting along beside her grandmother, and she was very pleased, because she had her money to spend, and she was a very pretty little girl, so everybody looked at her. And she was very nicely dressed, and her hair was beautiful; I was forgetting that, for it has to do with the story--long, long curls of bright light hair down her back. And she bought with her money a very pretty little basket with roses painted outside; and after a while, when they had looked at all the shops, her grandmother thought it was time to go home. They had to pass through a very crowded place, where a lot of people were standing to see some kind of show, and Marie's grandmother said to the nurse, 'Wait a minute, the crowd will be going, for the show is just over.' So the nurse, who had Marie's hand, stepped back just a little bit to wait, and Marie, seeing her grandmother just in front pulled away from the nurse to get beside her grandmother. But just then--they were standing like at the edge of the crowd, you know--Marie caught sight of a funnily dressed up dog, that a man had on a table, and that he was making bow to the people that passed. Meaning to come back in a moment, Marie darted away to see the dog, and just for a little while the nurse didn't miss her, thinking she was with her grandmother, for she had said when she pulled away her hand, 'I want to go to grandmother,' and of course her grandmother didn't miss her, thinking she was behind with the nurse. Marie was so pleased with the dog that she stood for a minute or two looking at it, and laughing to herself at its tricks. And then she heard some one saying to her, in French of course--she could speak both French and English--'Oh, what pretty hair the young lady has! Oh, what a charming young lady!' And when she turned round she saw the person that was speaking to her was a gipsy-looking girl--of course Marie was too little to know that she was gipsy-looking--but she remembered that she had very dark hair and eyes, and a bright scarlet dress, and shiny gold things about her head. She must have been one of the rope-dancing players, mother told me, for afterwards her grandmother noticed that their tent was close by the dancing dog place. Little Marie looked up at the girl without speaking. Then the girl said to her, 'I have two little dogs that dance much better than that. Will the young lady come with me to see them?'