WORK FOR THE TOWN-CRIER
'Oh, those girls,' I thought to myself; 'why did I leave them alone in
mother's room with all her things about?'
But Anne's face made me feel as if I couldn't say anything--not before
all those people; though of course I knew that as soon as she could see
mother alone she would tell, herself. I was turning away, thinking it
would be better to wait--for, you see, mother was not blaming any one
else--when all of a sudden Maud ran up. She was all dressed up very
nicely, of course; and she's a pretty little thing, everybody says, and
then she's the youngest. So a lot of people had been petting her and
making a fuss about her. Maud doesn't like that at all. She's not the
least bit conceited or spoilt, and she really is so sensible that I
think it teazes her to be spoken to as if she was only a baby. Her face
was rather red, I remember; she had been trying to get away from those
ladies without being at all rude, for she's far too 'ladylike' to be
rude _ever_. And now she ran up, in a hurry to get to her dear Anne as
usual. But the moment she saw Anne's face she knew that something was
wrong. For one thing, Anne's mouth was wide open, and I have told you
about Anne's mouth. Then there was the pin in mother's hand, the
hair-pin, and no top to it! And mums looking so troubled, and all the
ladies round her.
'What is it?' said Maud in her quick way. 'Oh--is mums' brooch broken?
Oh, Anne, you shouldn't have touched it!'
Everybody--mother and everybody--turned to Anne; I _was_ sorry for her.
It wasn't like Maud to have called it out, she is generally so careful;
but you see she was startled, and she only thought the diamond thing was
broken or loosened.
Anne's face grew scarlet.
'What do you mean, Maudie?' said mother. 'Anne, what does she mean?'
It was hard upon Anne, for it looked as if she hadn't been going to
tell, and that wasn't at all her way. In another moment I daresay she
would have blurted it out; but then, you see, she had hardly had time
to take in that most likely she had caused the mischief, for she knew
she hadn't _meant_ to, and she quite thought she had left the pin just
as firmly fastened as she had found it.
'Oh, mother,' she cried, 'I didn't think-- I never meant-- I'm sure I
screwed it in again quite the same.'
'When did you touch it? I don't understand anything about it. Jack, what
do Anne and Maud mean?' said poor mums, turning to me.
'It was my fault,' I said. 'I shouldn't have left any one in your room,
with all your things about, and Rowley even not there.'
'And I did tell Anne not to touch the diamond brooch,' said Maud. For
once she really seemed quite angry with Anne.
Then we told mother all there was to tell--at least Anne did, for she
knew the most of course. She had been fiddling at the diamond thing all
the time she was standing by the table, but no one had noticed her
except Maud. For you remember mums was in a great hurry, and I was
helping her to fasten her bracelet, and Rowley was fussing at her skirt,
and then Hebe and I went half-way downstairs to see mother start. Oh
dear, I did feel vexed with myself! Anne said she wanted to see how the
ornament could be turned into different things; she had unscrewed the
pin and unclicked the little catch, and then she had fixed in the other
kind of pin to make it into a brooch, and she wanted to try the screw
with a ring to it, to make it a hanging ornament, but Maud wouldn't let
her stay. So she screwed in the hairpin again--the one that gran had
fastened in himself. She meant to do it quite tight, but she couldn't
remember if she clicked the little catch. And she was in a hurry, so no
doubt she did it carelessly.
That was really about all Anne had to tell.
But it was plain that it had been her fault that the beautiful ornament
was lost. It had dropped off. Mums didn't say very much to her: it
wouldn't have done before all the visitors. They were very good-natured,
and very sorry for mother. And several people said again what a good
thing it was it was only _lost_, not stolen, for that gave ever so much
more chance of finding it.
When all the people had gone, father came in. Mother had still her dress
on, but she was looking very white and tired, and in a moment, like
Maud, he saw there was something the matter.
He was very vexed, dreadfully vexed, only he was too good to scold Anne
_very_ much. And indeed it would have been difficult to do so, she
looked such a miserable creature, her eyes nearly swollen out of her
head with crying. And we were all pretty bad--even Serry, who never
troubles herself much about anything, looked solemn. And as for me, I
just couldn't forgive myself for not having stayed in mother's room and
seen to putting away her jewel-cases, as I generally do.
Father set to work at once. First he made mother stand up in the middle
of the room, and he called Rowley, and he and Rowley and I and Hebe
shook out her train and poked into every little fluthery ruffle--there
was a lot of fustled-up net inside the edge, just the place for the
diamond thing to get caught in, and we made her shake herself and turn
out her pocket and everything. But it was no use. Then--the poor little
thing was nearly dead, she was so tired!--father made her go to take off
her finery, telling Rowley to look over all the dress again when mother
had got out of it. Then he and I went out together to the coach-house,
first telling all the servants of the loss, and making them hunt over
the hall and up and down the stairs; it was really quite exciting,
though it was horrid too, knowing that father and mother were so vexed
and Anne so miserable.
We found the coachman just washing the carriage. We got into it, and
poked into every corner, and shook out the rugs, and just did
everything, even to looking on the front-door steps behind the scraper,
and in the gutter, and shaking out the roll of carpet that had been laid
down. For father is splendid at anything like that; he's so practical,
and I think I take after him. (I don't know but what I'd like best of
all to be a private detective when I grow up. I'll speak to father about
it some day.)
But all was no use, and when we came up to the drawing-room again there
was mums in her crimson teagown, looking _so_ anxious. It went to my
heart to have to shake my head, especially when poor Anne came out of a
corner looking like a dozen ghosts.
Still, we had rather a nice evening after all, though it seems odd. It
was all thanks to father. He made us three come down to dinner with mums
and him, 'To cheer your mother up a little,' he said, though I shouldn't
have thought there was much cheering to be got out of Anne. In reality I
think he did it as much for Anne's sake as for mums's. And Hebe was
very sweet to Anne, for they don't _always_ get on so very well. Hebe
sometimes does elder sister too much, which is bad enough when one _is_
elder sister, but rather too bad when one _isn't_, even if it is the
real elder sister's own fault. But to-night Hebe sat close to Anne,
holding her hand under the table-cloth, and trying to make her eat some
pudding. (It was chocolate pudding, I remember, and mother gave us each
some.)
And when dessert was on the table, and the servants had gone, father
called Anne to him, and put his arm round her.
'My dear little girl,' he said, 'you must try to leave off crying. It
only makes mother more troubled. I can't deny that this loss _is_ a
great vexation: it will annoy grandfather, and--well, there's no use
telling you what you know already. But of course it isn't as bad as some
troubles, and even though I'm afraid I can't deny that it has come
through your fault, it isn't as bad as if your fault had been a worse
one--unkindness, or untruthfulness, or some piece of selfishness.'
Anne hid her face on his shoulder, and sobbed and choked, and said
something we couldn't hear.
'But still carelessness _is_ a great fault, and causes troubles without
end,' father went on. 'And in this case it was meddlesomeness too. I do
hope----'
'Oh, father,' said Anne, looking up, 'I know what you're going to say.
Yes, it _will_ be a lesson to me: you'll see. I shall be quite
different, and ever so much more thoughtful and careful from now.'
And of course she meant what she said.
But father looked grave still.
'My dear child, don't be too confident. You won't find that you can cure
yourself all at once. The force of bad habit is almost harder to
overcome in small things than in great: it is so unconscious.'
'Yes, father,' said Anne.
She understood what he said better than I did then; for she is really
clever--much cleverer than I am about poetry and _thinking_ sort of
cleverness, though I have such a good memory. So I remembered what
father said, and now I understand it.
After dinner we went up to the littlest drawing-room--the one mother
wanted for so long to refurnish prettily. There was a fire, for it was
only March, and mums sat in one of the big old armchairs close to it,
and Anne and Hebe beside her. And father drew a chair to mums'
writing-table, and wrote out several advertisements for the next
morning's papers, which he sent off to the offices that very evening.
Some were in the next morning, and some weren't; but it didn't much
matter, for none of them did any good. Before he sent them he inquired
of all the servants if they had looked everywhere he had told them to.
'There is just a chance of daylight showing it in some corner,' he said,
when he had done all this, and come to sit down beside mums.
'I don't know that,' she said. 'This house is so dark by day. But, after
all, the chance of its being here is very small.'
'Yes,' father said, 'I have more hope in the advertisements.'
'And,' mother went on, her voice sounding almost as if she was going to
cry--I believe she kept it back a good deal for Anne's sake--'if--if
they don't bring anything, what about telling your father, Alan?' 'Alan'
is fathers name--'Alan Joachim,' and mine is 'Joachim Gerald.'
Father considered.
'We must wait a little. It will be a good while before I quite give up
hopes of it. And there's no use in spoiling gran's time in Ireland; for
there's no doubt the news _would_ spoil it--he's the sort of person to
fret tremendously over a thing of the kind.'
'I'm afraid he is,' said mother, and she sighed deeply.
But hearing a faint sob from Anne, father gave mother a tiny sign, and
then he asked us if we'd like him to read aloud a little sort of fairy
story he'd been writing for some magazine. Of course we all said 'Yes':
we're very proud if ever he offers to read us anything, even though we
mayn't understand it very well; but this time we did understand it--Anne
best of all, I expect. And when he had finished, it was time for us to
go to bed.
We had had, as I told you, rather an extra nice evening after all, and
father had managed to make poor mums more cheerful and hopeful.
It got worse again, however, the next day, when the hours went on, and
there came no letter or telegram or anything about the lost treasure.
For mother had got to feel almost sure the advertisements would bring
some news of it. And father was very late of coming home. It was a
dreadfully busy time for him just then. We were all in bed before he
came in, both that night and the next I remember, for I know he looked
in to say good-night to me, and to say he hoped we were all being as
good as we could be to mums.
I think we were, and to Anne too, for we were nearly as sorry for her. I
had never known her mind about anything so much, or for so long. Serry
began to be rather tired of it.
'It's so awfully dull to see Anne going about with such a long face,'
she said the second evening, when we were all sitting with mother. 'Mums
herself doesn't look half so gloomy. Mums, do tell Anne not to be so
cross; it can't be as bad for her as for you.'
'You're very unkind, Serry,' said Maud, bristling up for Anne; 'and,
after all, I think you might feel a little sorry too. You joined Anne in
looking over all mother's things that night, you know you did, and you
only laughed when I said you'd left them in a mess.'
Serry only laughed now. She tossed back her fluffy hair--it's a way of
hers, and I must say she looks very pretty when she does it.
'It's not my nature to fuss about things,' she said. 'It wouldn't suit
my name if I did; would it, mums? And you are such a little preacher,
Maud.'
It _was_ funny to hear Maud. It's funny still, for she looks such a
mite, but two years ago it was even funnier. For she was only six and a
half then, though she spoke just as well as she does now. I can't
remember ever hearing Maud talk babyishly.
'Don't begin quarrelling about it, my dear children,' said mother. 'That
certainly won't do any good. And, Anne, you must just try to put it off
your mind a little, as I am doing.'
'I _can't_,' said Anne. 'I've never been so long sorry about anything in
my life. I didn't know any one _could_ be. I dream about it all night,
too--the most provoking dreams of finding it in all sorts of places.
Last night I dreamt I found it in my teacup, when I had finished
drinking my tea, and it seemed so dreadfully _real_, you don't know. I
could scarcely help thinking it would be in my cup this morning at
breakfast.'
'Oh,' said Serena, 'that was why you were staring at the dregs so, and
sighing so dolefully.'
But Anne didn't pay any attention to her.
'Mother,' she said, 'you don't think it could _mean_ anything--my dream,
I mean? Could it be that we are to look all through the teacups in the
pantry, for you know there were a great lot in the drawing-room that
day, and it _might_ have dropped into one that wasn't used, and got put
away without being washed.'
Mums smiled a little.
'I'm afraid that's wildly improbable,' she said; 'but if you like to go
downstairs and tell Barstow about your dream, you may. It may inspirit
them all to go on looking, for I'm afraid they have given up hopes.'
Barstow is the butler. He's _very_ nice, and he was with father since
he--I mean, father--was a baby; he's been always with gran, or what he
calls 'in the family.' He's only got one fault, and that is, he can't
keep a footman. We've just had _shoals_, and now father and mother say
they really can't help it, and Barstow must settle them for himself.
Since they've said that, the last two have stayed rather longer.
But he's most exceedingly jolly to us. Mums says he spoils us, but I
don't think he does, for he's very particular. Lots of footmen have been
sent away because he didn't think they spoke properly for us to hear. He
was terribly shocked one day when Serry said something was 'like
blazes,' and still worse when he caught me pretending to smoke. He was
sure James or Thomas had taught me, say what I would, and of course I
was only humbugging.
I think mums sent Anne down to talk to old Barstow a bit, partly to
cheer her up. Anne was away about ten minutes. When she came back she
did look rather brighter, though she shook her head. She was holding a
note in her hand.
'No,' she said; 'Barstow was very nice, and he made Alfred climb up to
look at some cups on a high shelf that hadn't been used the Drawing-room
day--they'd just been brought up in case the others ran short. But there
was nothing there. At least--look, mother,' she went on, holding out the
letter. 'Fancy, Alfred found _this_ on the shelf. Barstow is so angry,
and Alfred's dreadfully sorry, and I said I'd ask you to forgive him. It
came that evening, when we were all in such a fuss, and he forgot to
give it you. He was carrying down a tray and put the note on it, meaning
to take it up to the drawing-room. And somehow it got among the extra
cups.'
Mums took the note and began to open it.
'I haven't the heart to scold any one for being careless just now,' she
said, and then she unfolded the letter and read it.
'I'm rather glad of this,' she said, looking up. 'And it is a good
thing it was found, Anne, otherwise Mrs. Liddell would have thought me
very rude. It is from her to say that the dancing class begins again
on--let me see--yes, it's to-morrow, Saturday, and she wants to know how
many of you are coming. It's to be at her house, like last year. I must
send her a word at once.'
Mrs. Liddell's house isn't far from ours, and it's very big. There's a
room with no carpet on, where we dance. She likes to have the class at
her house, because her children are awfully delicate, or, anyway, she
thinks they are; and if it's the least cold or wet, she's afraid to let
them go out. They come up to town early in the spring, and it suits very
well for us to go to their class, as it's so near.
We rather like it. There's more girls than boys, of course--a lot--but I
don't mind, because there are two or three about my size, and one a bit
bigger, though he's younger.
We were not sorry to hear it was to begin again, and we all said to mums
that she should let Maud come too. Maud had never been yet, and Serry
had only been one year. Mums wasn't sure. Dancing is rather expensive,
you know, but she said she'd ask father.
'The class is to be every Saturday afternoon, like last year,' she said.
'That will do very well.'
'But do persuade father to let Maud come too,' we all said.
It wasn't till afterwards that I thought to myself that I would look
absurder than ever--the only boy to _four_ sisters! It was bad enough
the year before with three.