We all think a great deal too much of ourselves. We all believe--every
man, woman, and child of us--in our very insidest inside heart, that no
one else in the world is at all like us, and that things happen to us
that happen to no one else. Now, this is a great mistake, because
however different we may be in the colour of our hair and eyes, the
inside part, the part that we feel and suffer with, is pretty much alike
in all of us. But no one seems to know this except me. That is why
people won't tell you the really wonderful things that happen to them:
they think you are so different that you could never believe the
wonderful things. But of course you are not different really, and you
can believe wonderful things as easily as anybody else. For instance,
you will be able to believe this story quite easily, for though it
didn't happen to you, that was merely an accident. It might have
happened, quite easily, to you or any else. As it happened, it happened
to Maria Toodlethwaite Carruthers.
You will already have felt a little sorry for Maria, and you will have
thought that I might have chosen a prettier name for her. And so I
might. But I did not do the choosing. Her parents did that. And they
called her Maria after an aunt who was disagreeable, and would have been
more disagreeable than ever if the baby had been called Enid or Elaine
or Vivien, or any of the pretty names that will readily occur to you.
She was called Toodlethwaite after the eminent uncle of that name who
had an office in London and an office in Liverpool, and was said to be
rolling in money.
'I _should_ like to see Uncle Toodlethwaite rolling in his money,' said
Maria, 'but he never does it when I'm about.'
The third name, Carruthers, was Maria's father's name, and she often
felt thankful that it was no worse. It might so easily have been Snooks
or Prosser.
Of course no one called Maria Maria except Aunt Maria herself. Her Aunt
Eliza, who was very refined, always wrote in the improving books that
she gave Maria on her birthday, 'To dearest Marie, from her affectionate
Aunt Elise,' and when she spoke to her she called her Mawrie. Her
brothers and sisters, whenever they wanted to be aggravating, called her
Toodles, but at times of common friendliness they called her Molly, and
so did most other people, and so shall I, and so may you.
Molly and her brothers and sisters were taken care of by a young woman
who was called a nursery-governess. I don't know why, for she did not
nurse them, and she certainly did not govern them. In her last situation
she had been called a lady-help--I don't know the why of that, either.
Her name was Simpshall, and she was always saying 'Don't,' and 'You
mustn't do that,' and 'Put that down directly,' and 'I shall tell your
mamma if you don't leave off.' She never seemed to know what you ought
to do, but only what you oughtn't.
One day the children had a grand battle with all the toy soldiers, and
the little brass cannons that shoot peas, and the other kind that shoot
pink caps with '_Fortes Amorces_' on the box.
Bertie, who always liked to have everything as real as possible, did
not like the soldiers to be standing on the bare polished mahogany of
the dining-table.
'It's not a bit like the field of glory,' he said. And indeed it was
not.
So he borrowed the large kitchen knife-box and went out, and brought it
in full of nice real clean mould out of the garden. Half a dozen
knife-box-fulls were needed to cover the table. Then the children made
forts and ditches, and brought in sprigs of geranium and calceolaria and
box and yew and made trees and ambushes and hedges. It was a lovely
battlefield, and would have melted the heart of anyone but a
nursery-governess.
But she just said, 'What a disgusting mess! How naughty you are!' and
fetched a brush and swept the field of glory away into the dustpan.
There was only just time to save the lives of the soldiers.
And then Cecily put the knife-box back without saying what it had been
used for, and the knives were put into it, so that at dinner everything
tasted of earth, and the grit got between people's teeth, so that they
could not eat their mutton or potatoes or cabbage, or even their gravy.
This, of course, was entirely Miss Simpshall's fault. If she had not
behaved as she did Bertie or Eva would have remembered to clean out the
knife-box. As it was, the story of the field of glory came out over the
gritty mutton and things, and father sent all the battlefield-makers to
bed.
Molly was out of this. She was staying with Aunt Eliza, who was kind, if
refined. She was to come back the next day. But as mother was on her way
to the station to meet Aunt Maria for a day's shopping, she met a
telegraph boy, who gave her a telegram from Aunt Eliza saying:
'Am going to Palace to-day instead of to-morrow. Fetch
Marie.--ELISE.'
So mother fetched her from Aunt Eliza's flat in Kensington and took her
shopping with Aunt Maria. There were hours of shopping in hot, stuffy
shops full of tired shop-people and angry ladies, and even the new hat
and jacket and the strawberry ice at the pastrycook's in Oxford Street
did not make up to Molly for that tiresome day.
Still, she was out of the battlefield row. Only as she did not know that
it could not comfort her.
When Aunt Maria had been put into her train, mother and Molly went home.
As their cab stopped, Miss Simpshall rushed out between the two dusty
laburnums by the gate.
'Don't come in!' said Miss Simpshall wildly.
'My dear Miss Simpshall----' said mother.
The hair of the nursery-governess waved wildly in the evening breeze.
She shut the ornamental iron gate in mother's face.
'Don't come in!' said Miss Simpshall again. 'You shan't, you
mustn't----'
'Don't talk nonsense,' said mother, looking very white. 'Have you gone
mad?'
Miss Simpshall said she hadn't.
'But what's the matter?' said mother.
'Measles,' said Miss Simpshall; 'it's all out on them--thick.'
'Good gracious!' said mother.
'And I thought you'd perhaps just as soon Molly didn't have it, Mrs.
Carruthers. And this is all the thanks I get, being told I'm insane.'
'I'm sorry,' said mother absently. 'Yes, you were quite right. Keep the
children warm. Has the doctor seen them?'
'Not yet; I've only just found it out. Oh, it's terrible! Their hands
and faces are all scarlet with purple spots.'
'Oh dear, oh dear! I hope it's nothing worse than measles! I'll call in
and send the doctor,' said mother; 'I shall be home by the last train.
It's a blessing Molly's clothes are all here in her box.'
So Molly was whisked off in the cab.
'I must take you back to your aunt's,' said mother.
'But Aunt Eliza's gone to stay at the Bishop's Palace,' said Molly.
'So she has; we must go to your Aunt Maria's. Oh dear!'
'Never mind, mother,' said Molly, slipping her hand into mother's;
'perhaps they won't have it very badly. And I'll be very good, and try
not to have it at all.'
This was very brave of Molly; she would much rather have had measles
than have gone to stay at Aunt Maria's.
Aunt Maria lived in a lovely old house down in Kent. It had beautiful
furniture and beautiful gardens; in fact, as Bertie said, it was a place
'Where every prospect pleases,
And only aunt is vile.'
Molly and her mother arrived there just at supper-time. Aunt Maria was
very surprised and displeased. Molly went to bed at once, and her
supper was brought up on a tray by Clements, aunt's own maid. It was
cold lamb and mint-sauce, and jelly and custard.
'Your aunt said to bring you biscuits and milk,' said Clements, 'but I
thought you'd like this better.'
'You're a darling!' said Molly; 'I was so afraid you'd be gone for your
holiday. It's not nearly so beastly when you're here.'
Clements was flattered, and returned the compliment.
'And you aren't so bad when you're good, miss,' she said. 'Eat it up.
I'll come back and bring you a night-light by-and-by.'
One thing Molly liked about Aunt Maria's was that there were no
children's bedrooms--no bare rooms with painted furniture and Dutch
drugget. All the rooms were 'best rooms', with soft carpets
and splendid old furniture. The beds were all four-posters with carved
pillars and silk damask curtains, and there were sure to be the
loveliest things to make believe with in whatever room you happened to
be put into. In this room there were cases of stuffed birds, and a
stuffed pike that was just like life. There was a wonderful old
cabinet, black and red and gold, very mysterious, and oak chests, and
two fat white Indian idols sitting cross-legged on the mantelpiece. It
was very delightful; but Molly liked it best in the daytime. And she was
glad of the night-light.
She thought of Bertie, and Cicely, and Eva, and baby, and Vincent, and
wondered whether measles hurt much.
Next day Aunt Maria was quite bearable. The worst thing she said was
about people coming when they weren't expected, and upsetting
everything.
'I'll try not to upset anything,' said Molly, and went out and got the
gardener to put up a swing for her.
Then she upset herself out of it, and got a bump on her forehead the
size of a hen's egg, and that, as Aunt Maria very properly said, kept
her out of mischief for the rest of the day.
Next morning Molly had two letters. The first was from Bertie. It said:
'DEAR MOLLY,
'It is rough lines on you, but we did not mean to keep it up, and
it is your fault for coming home the day before you ought to have.
We did it to kid old Simpshall, because she was so beastly about us
making a real battlefield. We only painted all the parts of us that
show with vermilion, and put spots--mixed crimson lake and Prussian
blue--all over, and we pulled down the blinds and said our heads
ached, and so they did with crying--I mean the girls cried. She was
afraid to come near us; but she was sorry she had been such a
beast. And when she had come to the door and said so through the
keyhole we owned up, but you had gone by then. It was a rare
lark, but we've got three days bedder for it. I shall lower this on
the end of a fishingline to the baker's boy, and he will post it.
It is like a dungeon. He is going to bring us tarts, like a
faithful page.
'Your affectionate bro.,
'BERTRAND DE LISLE CARRUTHERS.'
The other letter was from mother.
'MY DARLING MOLLY,
It was all a naughty hoax, intended to annoy poor Miss Simpshall.
Your brothers and sisters had painted their faces red and
purple--they had not measles at all. But since you _are_ at Aunt
Maria's I think you may as well stay ...'
'How awful!' said Molly. 'It _is_ too bad!'
'... stay and make it your annual visit. Be a good girl, dear, and
do not forget to wear your pinafores in the morning.
'Your loving MOTHER.'
Molly wrote a nice little letter to her mother. To her brother she said: