"There's no dew left on the daisies and clover,
There's no rain left in heaven;
I've said my seven times over and over:
Seven times one are seven."
Tommy was standing at the table before breakfast, reciting in a
breathless, sing-song voice. Before school closed for the summer
holidays Miss Lavinia had taught him the poem so that he could say it
as a surprise to Daddy and Mammy this morning. For this morning was
the 29th of August, and Tommy's birthday, and he was just exactly
"seven times one."
His parents listened to him with pride, but Mammy could not help
feeling a little sad, for she realized how very quickly Tommy was
growing up. Because she was always busy the months simply sped along.
This spring had passed unusually quickly, and now here was the summer
almost over and Tommy was actually seven years old!
Mrs. Tregennis had been very successful in letting her rooms this
season; since the first week in May the house had been full. She and
Daddy and Tommy were all greatly disappointed that Tommy's Ladies were
not coming to Draeth this year. They had sent some of their friends,
certainly, and they proved to be very nice people and paid Mrs.
Tregennis well. But, of course, it was not the same. From these
friends, too, Mrs. Tregennis had heard disquieting rumours, and she
was much afraid that it would be a long, long time before the Blue
Lady and the Brown Lady would come again to Draeth to stay.
"And show me your nest with the young ones in it,
I will not steal them away;
I am old, you can trust me, linnet, linnet;
I am seven times one to-day."
Tommy ended the surprise poem with pride, for not one stumble had he
made all the way through from beginning to end. Daddy showed his
appreciation by giving him a sixpenny bit, as he wished him "Many
'appy returns o' the day."
This awakened memories of the past, and Tommy became reflective.
"My poor Granny used to give me a half-a-crown on my birthday," he
remarked, reminiscently. "She didn't never have ought to 'a done it,"
he continued, shaking his head, "for she couldn't rightly afford 'e.
Still, she did allus give me a half-a-crown did my poor Gran!"
Further reflections were interrupted by the postman.
"Well, I be glad an' yet I'm not glad," Mrs. Tregennis said, when she
had come to the end of her letter and passed it over to Daddy.
"He did ought to be shot!" was Tregennis's fierce comment when he had
read to the end of the first page.
"Who did ought to be shot, Daddy?" Tommy's efforts to balance the
sixpenny-bit on the extreme tip of his nose were interrupted while he
put the question.
"Miss Margaret's been gettin' married, ma lovely," Mrs. Tregennis told
him.
This seemed no explanation to Tommy, and he persisted in his question.
"Who did ought to be shot, Daddy?" he repeated.
Tregennis looked across at his wife. "There ain't no man in this world
good enough for Miss Margaret," he asserted. "He did ought to be shot
even for so much as lookin' at her, but as for wantin' to marry
her--well----." Here words failed him.
Meanwhile Mrs. Tregennis had taken off the wrapper from an illustrated
paper that the postman had brought, too. Turning over the pages, she
came to one down which a thick, red line was drawn, and there was Miss
Margaret's likeness just staring her in the face!
Silently Tommy and Tregennis looked as Mrs. Tregennis pointed.
"'Elliott and Fry,'" read Mrs. Tregennis, meaninglessly.
Tregennis nodded. "Them's the chaps as took it."
"Then this is _him_!" said Mammy, and put her finger on the portrait
next to Miss Margaret's own.
Then she drew in her breath sharply. "Why, she be marryin' a _Sir_!"
she exclaimed. "They'll never come here no more."
She looked sadly round the tiny kitchen. There was the line on which
Miss Margaret's wet skirts had hung, time and time again. That was the
rocking-chair Miss Margaret had sat in many a day when the evenings
were turning cold. Under the table was the Dobbin that the Blue Lady
and the Brown Lady had given to Tommy at the very first of all.
"An' now she be married to a Sir," she murmured, "an' she'll never
come here no more!"
It was Tommy's seventh birthday, yet gloom was upon them all!
The handle of the outside door was turned and Granfäather Tregennis
stood on the threshold.
"Mornin'," he said, nodding all round comprehensively.
Then he gave his whole attention to Tommy.
"'Appy returns to ee, my man!"
Awkwardly he stood there for a moment, fumbling with something he held
in his hand.
"This do be the half-a-crown as your Granny always gived ee when your
birthday comed nigh."
As he put the money on the table there were tears in his eyes, and he
turned abruptly and left.
"Granfäather do be breakin' up," sighed Mrs. Tregennis. "Never been
the same he haven't since Gran died. He do miss her somethin' awful,
and we shan't have him long. Ah, well," she sighed again, as she
rolled up her sleeves to the elbow in readiness for the washing-up;
"there do be a sight of weariness in the world as well as joy. We've
no cause to grumble much, 'tis true; but somehow this mornin' I be
altogether down, and there's where 'tis to!"
Just before tea that day, when Tommy was playing on the sands, Mrs.
Tregennis introduced a subject that was much on her mind.
"School begins Monday, Tom," she reminded him.
"Both?" he asked, laconically.
Mrs. Tregennis nodded affirmatively.
"Seems on'y right to tell Miss Lavinia," she went on to say. Then,
after a rather long pause, "I suppose she'm well enough off; I suppose
she've enough to live?"
"Should think th' old doctor 'e left she a bit," answered Tregennis,
reflectively. "Her've enough to live I should reckon."
"Seems hard like to take the children away; she be such a kindly dear
soul is Miss Lavinia," and as Mrs. Tregennis cut the bread and butter
she pondered as to what was the best thing to do.
On Monday the new Council Schools would open. The buildings were very
grand and modern, and the head master was coming down from a college
in London. There was no school-money to pay, it seemed, although the
education was to be of the best. Mrs. Tregennis knew that nearly all
the children were leaving Miss Lavinia's for the new school, and she
and Tregennis had decided that Tommy should go too.
For years past there had been so many parents anxious to send their
children to Miss Lavinia that she had made no rule about giving
notice. If, on the morning that school reopened, she found that one
or two of her scholars had left, she sent round a message at once to
some of the addresses she kept written down in a note-book in her
desk, and in the afternoon the vacant places were always filled.
This time Mrs. Tregennis knew that there would be many vacant places,
and she felt somehow that Miss Lavinia was not prepared for the change
the new school must inevitably mean to her. So she talked the matter
over with Tregennis, and they decided that after tea she should go on
and just tell Miss Lavinia that Tommy was leaving, it would seem more
polite like. So after tea Mrs. Tregennis and Tommy went on.
They found Miss Lavinia standing on her door-step; she was dressed for
walking and was locking the door behind her when they approached. At
once she unlocked the door, re-entered the house, and showed her
visitors into the best parlour. Here she left them for a few moments
while, with old-fashioned courtesy, she went upstairs to remove her
bonnet and mantle so that Mrs. Tregennis should not feel that she must
hurry away.
Tommy had never before been in Miss Lavinia's parlour, and he stood by
the highly polished round table in the centre of the room, lost in
admiration of the stuffed birds and wax flowers that were placed under
glass shades on mats of gaily coloured wool. There were piles of
books, too, on the polished table. These were arranged corner-wise
with regard to each other. They all had leather bindings, and there
were three or four in each pile.
When Miss Lavinia came into the room she walked across to the window
and drew up the dark green blind half-way, so that a stream of evening
sunshine darted across the parlour and myriads of tiny dust-particles
danced in the shaft of light.
Miss Lavinia bade Mrs. Tregennis be seated, but Tommy still leaned up
against the polished table.
There was a moment's awkward pause, then "Is Tommy tired of holiday
and ready for school?" Miss Lavinia asked, smiling.
Mrs. Tregennis found difficulty in answering. "'Tis just about that
I've come, please, Miss," she said, after some hesitation. "You see,
Miss, all the others is goin', too, and there's nothin' at all to pay,
an' we'm only poor, an' they say the learnin's to be of the best, and
all the other boys be goin', so I suppose our Tommy did ought to go,
too."
"Go? Where?" But even as Miss Lavinia's lips framed the question she
knew what the answer would be.
"To the new Council School, Miss Lavinia," faltered Mrs. Tregennis.
Then the two women looked at each other without speaking. Both were
troubled, and there seemed nothing more to say.
It was Mrs. Tregennis who broke the silence. "We know what we owe you,
Miss Lavinia, his Daddy an' me. You've done a lot for our Tommy, Miss.
He've come on well and learnt a lot. Not only schoolin' I'm thinkin'
of, Miss Lavinia, but in his manners an' all, an' in doin' right and
tryin' to be brave. He'll not get that at the new school, I'm
thinkin'."
"Thank you, Mrs. Tregennis," Miss Lavinia was smiling bravely. "Tommy
has always been one of my best little boys, and, for myself, I am very
sorry that he must go."
Again there was a pause. Miss Lavinia seemed to pass through a little
struggle with herself. Then, "And did you say there were others?" she
asked.
Mrs. Tregennis flushed deeply. "Yes, Miss Lavinia, Ma'am, and didn't
you know, Miss? All they boys be goin': Jimmy Prynne, and David
Williams and the Tomses, an' all of they."
Mrs. Tregennis rose from her seat. "I be so sorry, please, Miss
Lavinia," she said, impulsively, holding out her hands to the little
figure, sitting perfectly upright on the Chippendale chair. "Oh, Miss
Lavinia, I do be that sorry!" Then, hesitatingly, "If I may make so
bold, does it _matter_, Miss Lavinia?"
It was now Miss Lavinia's turn to flush. Her eyes were very bright and
her chin was uplifted.
"Thank you, Mrs. Tregennis," she said, and lied bravely; "I am very
sorry to lose the children, more sorry than I can tell you, but of
course it does not matter in that sense."
Mrs. Tregennis was relieved. "That's just what Tom said; he said
'twould be all right in that way, did Tom. Still, I do be very sorry
for Tommy to go."
Mrs. Tregennis moved slowly to the door, then turned again. "Tommy
said his piece beautiful this mornin', Miss Lavinia. Thank you for
teachin' him. It was lovely."
At first Miss Lavinia was puzzled, then she remembered.
"Why, of course, it's Tommy's birthday," she said, and walked across
the room to the polished mahogany table.
From the top of a pile of books she took one that was much smaller
than the rest, and had a padded binding of crimson leather. After
turning over the pages she put it down in front of Tommy, dipped a pen
into the ink, and bade him write his name upon the dotted line, to
which she pointed.
"This is my birthday book, Tommy," she explained, "and when you have
written your name there I shall always know when your birthday comes
round each year."
Slowly and carefully Tommy wrote, his tongue curling round the corner
of his mouth the while. The one dotted line was not long enough, so he
finished on the line below. His name looked very beautiful when it was
written there, and Miss Lavinia blotted it carefully before replacing
the little crimson book on its own pile on the shining table.
When her visitors had left Miss Lavinia sat alone in the best parlour,
looking out across the river with tired, unseeing eyes.
Tommy and Mrs. Tregennis walked slowly home. Tommy was very silent,
for his thoughts were fully occupied with Miss Lavinia's crimson
Birthday Book in which he had written his name so lovely.
At first he was perplexed and wondered why Miss Lavinia had wanted to
have his name written there, but after a little thought it became
quite plain to him. Every year, when the twenty-ninth of August came
round, Miss Lavinia would remember him, Tommy. Every year, on the
evening of that day, she would enter the best parlour, and, after
closing the door behind her, she would walk across to the window and
raise the dark green blind a little way. When the blind was drawn a
broad shaft of light would cross the room and hundreds of little bits
of dust would come in with the light and dance gaily all together in
the golden beam.
Then Miss Lavinia would push to one side the piles of books, and,
kneeling, facing the stuffed birds and the gay wax flowers, she would
rest her elbows on the brightly polished table and pray for him,
Tommy, that he might be a good boy and grow up to be a brave, true
man.
Tommy had no doubt at all that this was just exactly what Miss Lavinia
would do. He could see it all quite clearly as he walked slowly home
with Mammy.
On Monday morning, at a quarter to nine, an unaccustomed sound broke
over Draeth. It was the ringing of the big bell in the tower of the
new Council Schools.
Against her better judgement, Miss Lavinia was drawn by the sound to
the window of the best parlour. Here she saw the boys and girls who
had once been hers trooping, laughing, and heedless of her pain, to
the big new school.
Tommy and Ruthie were the last to pass beneath Miss Lavinia's window.
At Miss Lavinia's open door Tommy paused.
Ruthie laughed. "Come on, Tommy," Miss Lavinia heard her say as she
pulled him towards her, and hand in hand, the two children ran along
the street and over the bridge.
Miss Lavinia saw them enter the big iron gates, and saw their
hesitation when they were parted. For Tommy had to turn to the right
and pass through the doorway, over which "Boys" was moulded in the
stonework, while Ruthie walked across the playground to the entrance
for the girls.
Miss Lavinia clasped her hands together for a moment. Then, as the
clock was striking nine, with firm lips and head erect, she turned
from the window and walked slowly to the schoolroom, where Annie
Geach, Ruby Dark, Lizzie Wraggles and one little new girl were waiting
for her to read the morning prayer.