LITTLE NARCISSA.
"But, I think, of all new-comers
Little children are the best."
From this time, I think, Ted lost his fear of mountains and giants. It
was not till a long time afterwards that he explained to his mother
exactly how it had been, and by that time he was of course quite big
enough to understand that Mr. Brand had only been joking. But still
he did not much care about seeing that gentleman again. He generally
managed to be out of the way when he saw the dog-cart with the gray
horse driving in at the gate, and just once, when he would not have had
time to run off without actual rudeness, which little Ted _never_ was
guilty of, he only waited to shake hands and say "Quite well, thank
thoo," before he disappeared in so unaccountable a manner that he could
not be found as long as Mr. Brand's visit lasted.
It was a good deal thanks to Mabel's story that he grew to like his
old friend the mountain again. But partly too, I daresay, he forgot
his fears on account of several very interesting things that happened
about this time. It was a great sorrow to him when Percy had to go back
to school--that was one of little Ted's lasting or rather returning
sorrows, all through his childhood. Only, like many things in our lives,
if we learn to look at them in the right way, it was certainly a trouble
with a bright side to it, a cloud with a silver lining--a silver lining
which shone indeed all the brighter for the gray outside--for was there
not the delight, the _delicious_ delight, of the coming back again, the
showing all the changes in the garden since Percy was last there, the
new toys and other little presents that Ted had received, and listening
to Percy's thrilling accounts of school-life, the relating his own
adventures?
Still there were times, especially now that Ted was really growing very
sensible, that he wished for some other companion in his simple daily
life, some one who, like the little fishes, did not have to go to
school. And now and then, when, in his rare expeditions to the sea-side
town not far off, he saw little groups of brothers and sisters trotting
along together, or when in the stories his mother read to him he heard
of happy nursery parties, Ted used to wish _he_ had a little "bruvver
or sister, even a baby one would be very nice." For deep down in his
loving heart there was already the true manly spirit, the longing to have
something to take care of and protect; something tinier and more tender
even than wee Ted himself.
And to make his child-life complete this pretty thing came to him. With
the autumn days, just when Ted was beginning to feel a little sad at the
summer brightness going away, and his garden work had come to be chiefly
helping old David to sweep up the fast-falling leaves, there came to Ted
a dear little baby sister. She was the dearest little thing--bright-eyed
and merry, and looking as if she was ready for all sorts of fun. She was
stronger than Ted had been, and to tell the truth I think I must say
prettier. For sweet and fair and dear as was Ted's face both in baby- and
boy-hood, he was not what one would call pretty. Not the sort of child
whose proud nurse comes home with wonderful stories of ladies stopping
her in the street to ask whose beautiful baby he was--not a splendidly
vigorous, stalwart little man like a small eight-years-old of my
acquaintance whose mother was lately afraid to walk about the streets
of Berlin with him lest the old Emperor, as he sometimes does, should
want to have him to make an officer of! No; Ted, though lithe and active
as a squirrel, merry as a cricket, was not a "showy" child. He was just
our own dear little Ted, our happy-hearted Christmas child.
But I suppose there never was in this world any one so happy but that it
was _possible_ for him to be happier. And this "more happiness" came to
Ted in the shape of his baby sister, Narcissa. Boys who despise sisters,
"girls" in any shape, big or little, don't know what a great deal they
lose. Ted was still a good way off the "big boy" stage, and indeed I
don't think anything could have made it possible for him to look at
things as too many big boys do. By the time he reached schoolboy-hood,
Narcissa was a dainty maiden of five or six, and quite able to stand
up for herself in a little queenly way, even had her brother been less
tender and devoted. And of the years between, though I would like to
tell you something, I cannot tell you half nor a quarter. They were
happy sunny years, though not _quite_ without clouds of course. And
the first summer of little Cissy's life was a sort of bright opening
to them.
It was again a very beautiful summer. The children almost lived
out-of-doors. Poor nurse found it difficult to get the work in the house
that fell to her share finished in the morning before Ted was tugging at
her to "tum out into the garden, baby does _so_ want to tum;" and baby
soon learnt to clap her hands and chuckle with glee when her little hat
was tied on and she was carried downstairs to her perambulator waiting
at the door. And there was new interest for Ted in hunting for the
loveliest wild flowers he could find, as baby showed, or Ted _thought_
she did, a quite extraordinary love for the bouquets her little brother
arranged for her.
"Her knows _kite_ well which is the prettiest ones, doesn't her, nurse?"
he said one day when they were all three--all four rather, for of course
Chevie was one of the group--established in their favourite place under
the shade of a great tree, whose waving branches little Cissy loved so
much that she would cry when nurse wheeled her away from it. "I think
baby knows _lots_, though she can't speak;" and baby, pleased at his
evidently talking of _her_, burst into a funny crowing laugh, which
seemed exactly as if she knew and approved of what he was saying.
"Baby's a darling," said nurse.
"How soon will her learn to speak?" Ted inquired gravely.
Illustration:
"Baby showed, or Ted _thought_ she did, a quite extraordinary love
for the bouquets her little brother arranged for her."--P. 98.
"Not just yet. She hasn't got any teeth. Nobody can speak without
teeth," said nurse.
"I hope," said Ted, more gravely still, "I hope Dod hasn't forgotten
them."
Nurse turned away to hide a smile.
"No fear, Master Ted," she said in a minute. "She'll have nice little
teeth by and by, you'll see. They'll be wee tiny white specks at first,
and then they'll grow quite big and strong enough to bite with. That's
how your teeth came. Not all of a sudden, you see."
"Ses," said Ted. "Nothing comes all in one sudden. The f'owers is weeny,
weeny buds at first, and then they gets big. Nurse, I'm going to take my
cart to get a _lot_ of daisies down by the brook for baby. She likes to
roll zem in her hands," and off he set with his little blue cart and
white horse, his best beloved possession, and which had done good
service in its time, to fill it with flowers for Cissy.
A few minutes later, as he was manfully dragging the cart up the path
again, gee-upping and gee-whoing at the horse, which was supposed to
find the daisy heads a heavy load uphill, his mother came out to the
garden.
"Ted, dear," she said, "your father is going to drive me to A----. It
is a long time since you were there, and I should like to have my little
boy to go about with me while your papa is busy. I have a good deal of
shopping to do. Would you like to go with me?"
Ted gave a shout of pleasure. Then suddenly his glance fell on the
little sister still in her perambulator under the big tree, and his eyes
filled with tears.
"I would like dedfully to go," he said, "but poor Cissy. I _is_ so
afraid Cissy will cry if I go."
He lifted his wistful little face to his mother's with an expression
that went to her heart.
"Dear Ted," she said; "you are a good, kind, little boy. But don't make
yourself unhappy about Cissy. She is too little to cry for your going
away, though she will laugh to see you come back."
Ted's face cleared, but suddenly a rosy colour spread over it.
"Muzzer," he said, in a low voice, tugging gently at her dress to make
her stoop down, "muzzer, I _sink_ I were going to cry not all for poor
baby being sorry, but part 'cos I did so want to go."
Mother understood his simple confession.
"Yes, dear," she said, "I daresay you did, and it is right of you to
tell me. My good little Ted," she could not resist adding again, and
again little Ted's face grew red, but this time with pleasure at
mother's praise.
Baby bore the announcement, which he considered it his duty to make to
her with great formality, very philosophically. Less philosophically did
she take nurse's wheeling her away from under her beloved tree with its
fluttering branches, towards the house, where nurse had to go to prepare
Ted for his expedition. In fact, I am sorry to say that so little did
the young lady realise what was expected of her, that she burst into a
loud roar, which was quite too much for Ted's feelings.
"Dear baby, sweet baby," he cried, "thoo mustn't be tooked away from
thoo's tree. I'll ask muzzer to deck me, nurse," he went on eagerly, for
his mother had returned to the house, "or I can nearly kite well deck
myself. I'll call thoo if I can't find my things. I'll run and ask
muzzer," and off he went, so eager to give no trouble, so ready and
helpful that nurse thought it best to let him have his way, and to
devote her attention to the discomposed Miss Baby.
Ted did not find his mother quite so quickly as he expected, though he
peeped into the drawing-room and called her by name as he passed her own
room upstairs, on his way to the nursery. The fact was that mother was
in the kitchen consulting with cook as to the groceries required to be
ordered, and it never came into Ted's head to look for her there at this
time of day. So he went straight on to the nursery, and managing with a
good deal of tugging and pulling and coaxing to open _his_ drawer in the
chest, he got out his best little coat and hat and prepared to don them.
But first he looked at his hands, which were none the whiter for their
recent ravages among the daisies.
"Zem's very dirty," he said to himself; "zem must be washed."
There was water in the jug, but Ted's ambition was aroused, and great
things were to be expected of a little boy who was big enough to "deck
himself," as he would have described the process.
"Ses, zem's _very_ dirty," he repeated, contemplating the two sunburnt
little paws in question. "Zem should have hot water. Hot water makes zem
ze most clean."
He glanced round, the hot water was not far to seek, for, though it was
June, the weather was not very warm, and nurse generally kept a small
fire burning in the day-nursery. And beside the fire, temptingly beside
the fire, stood the kettle, into which Ted peeping, satisfied himself
that there was water enough for his purpose. He would hardly have had
patience to fetch it had it not been there, so eager was he for the
delights of putting it on to boil. And, wonderful to say, he managed it;
he got the kettle, heavy for him to lift, as you can imagine, safely on
to the fire, and then, with immense satisfaction, sat down in front of
it to watch the result. There was very little water in the kettle, but,
though Ted did not think about that, it was all the less trying for his
patience. And I hardly think either, that the water could have been
quite cold in the first place, or else the fairies came down the chimney
and blew up the fire with their invisible bellows to help little Ted,
for certainly the kettle began to boil amazingly soon--first it simmered
gently and then it began to sing more loudly, and at last what Ted
called "moke" began to come out of the spout, and he knew that the
kettle was boiling.
Ted was so used to hear nurse talking about the kettle "boiling" for
tea, that it never came into his head that it was not necessary to have
"boiling" water to wash his poor little hands. I don't indeed know what
might not have happened to the whole of his poor little body had not
his mother at that moment come into the room. A queer sight met her
eyes--there was Ted, more than half undressed, barefooted and red-faced,
in the act of lifting off the steaming kettle, round the handle of
which, with wonderful precaution, he had wrapped his pocket-handkerchief.
Ted's mother kept her presence of mind. She did not speak till the
kettle was safely landed on the floor, and Ted, with a sigh of relief,
looked up and saw her at the door.
"I is decking myself, muzzer," he said with a pleased smile, and a
charming air of importance, "Poor baby cried, so I told nurse I would
deck myself, and nurse didn't mind."
"_Didn't_ she?" said his mother, rather surprised.
"Oh, she thoughtened p'raps I'd find thoo, I amember," Ted continued,
correcting himself.
"But did nurse know you were going to boil water?" said his mother.
"Oh no," said Ted, "it were only that my hands is _so_ dirty. Zem needs
hot water to make zem clean."
"Hot water, but not _boiling_," said his mother; "my dear little boy, do
you know you might have scalded yourself dreadfully?"
"I put my hankerwick not to burn my hands," said Ted, rather
disconsolately.
"Yes, dear. I know you meant it for the best, but just think if you had
dropped the kettle and burnt yourself. And nurse has always told you not
to play with fire or hot water."
"Ses," said Ted, "but I weren't _playing_. I were going to wash my hands
to be nice to go out wif thoo," and his blue eyes filled with tears. But
they were soon wiped away, and when his mother had with the help of
_some_ of the hot water made face and hands as clean as could be, and
smoothed the tangled curls and fastened the best little coat, Ted looked
very "nice" indeed, I can assure you, for his drive to A----.
It was a very happy drive. Perched safely between his father and mother,
Ted was as proud as a king. It was all so pretty, the driving through
the shady lanes, where the honeysuckle and wild-roses were just beginning
to show some tints of colour, the peeps now and then of the sea below in
its blue beauty, the glancing up sometimes at the mountain top, Ted's
old friend, along whose sides they were actually travelling--it was all
delightful. And when they drew near the little town, and the houses
began to stand closer, till at last they came in rows and streets, and
the old mare's hoofs clattered over the stones of the market-place so
that the people in the sleepy little place came out to see who was
coming, Ted's excitement knew no bounds. He had almost forgotten A----,
it was so long since he had been there--the sights of the shops and what
appeared to him their wonderful contents, the sight even of so many
people and children walking about, was almost too much for the little
country child; it seemed to take his breath away.
He recovered his composure, however, when he found himself trotting
about the streets with his mother. She had several shops to go to, each,
to Ted, more interesting than the other. There was the ironmonger's to
visit, for cook had begged for a new preserving pan and the nursery
tea-pot handle was broken; there were various milk jugs and plates to
replace at the china shop; brown holland to get at the draper's for
Ted's summer blouses. At two or three of the shops his mother, being
a regular customer and having an account with them, did not pay, and
among these was the grocer's, where she had rather a long list of things
needed for the store-closet, and while she was explaining about them all
to the white-aproned young man behind the counter, Ted marched about
the shop on a voyage of discovery on his own account. There were so many
interesting things--barrels of sugar, white, brown, and darker brown
still, neat piles of raisins and currants, closely fastened bottles
of French plums, and rows of paper-covered tin boxes which Ted knew
contained biscuits.
"What a kind man," he said to himself, "to give muzzer all she wants,"
as one after another of his mother's requests was attended to. "Why, he
lets muzzer take whatever her likes!" he added, as having brought his
wanderings to a close for a minute, he stood beside her and saw her
lifting a little square of honey soap out of a box which the grocer
presented to her for examination, and, greatly impressed, Ted set off
again on another ramble. Doubtless he too might take whatever he liked,
and as the thought occurred to him he pulled up before another barrel
filled with lumps, little and big, of half clear, whitey-looking stuff,
something like very coarse lump sugar, only not so white, and more
transparent. Ted knew what it was. It was soda, _washing_ soda I believe
it is usually called. Ted was, as I have said, very wide-awake about all
household matters, for he always used his eyes, and very often--indeed
rather oftener than was sometimes pleasant for the people about him if
they wanted to be quiet--his tongue too, for he was great at asking
questions.
"Soda's very useful," Ted reflected; "nurse says it makes things come
cleaner."
Just then his mother called him.
"Ted, dear," she said, "I'm going."
Ted started and ran after her, but just as he did so, he stretched out
his hand and took a lump of soda out of the barrel. He did it quite
openly, he didn't mind in the very least if the shopman saw him--like
the daisies in the field, so he thought, the soda and the sugar and the
French plums and everything were there for him or for any one to help
themselves to as they liked. But Ted was not greedy--he was far better
pleased to get something "useful" for mother than anything for himself.
He would have asked her what he had better take, if he had had time--he
would have stopped to say "Thank you" to the grocer had he not been in
such a hurry to run after his mother.
They walked quickly down the street. Ted's mother was a little
absent-minded for the moment--she was thinking of what she had ordered,
and hoping she had forgotten nothing. And holding her little boy by the
one hand she did not notice the queer thing he was holding in the
other. Suddenly she stopped before a boot and shoe shop.
"I must get baby a pair of shoes," she said. "She is such a little
kicker, she has the toes of her cloth ones out in no time. We must get
her a pair of leather ones I think, Ted."
"Ses, I sink so," said Ted.
So his mother went into the shop and asked the man to show her some
little leather shoes. Ted looked on with great interest, but when the
shoes were spread out on the counter and he saw that they were all
_black_, he seemed rather disappointed.
"Muzzer," he said in a low voice, tugging at his mother's skirts, "I saw
such bootly boo boots in the man's winder."
His mother smiled.
"Yes, dear," she replied, "they're very pretty, but they wouldn't last
so long, and I suspect they cost much more."
Ted looked puzzled.
"What does thoo mean?" he said, but before his mother had time to
explain, the active shopman had reached down the "bootly" boots and held
them forward temptingly.
"They're certainly very pretty," said baby's mother, who, to tell the
truth, was nearly as much inclined for the blue boots as Ted himself.
"What is the price of them?"
"Three and sixpence, ma'am," replied the man.
"And the black ones, the little black shoes, I mean?"
"Two and six," replied the man.
"A shilling difference, you see, Ted," said his mother. But Ted only
looked puzzled, and his mother, occupied with the boots, did not
particularly notice him.
"I think," she said at last, "I think I will take both. But as the blue
boots will be best ones for a good while, give me them half a size
larger than the little black shoes."
The shopman proceeded to wrap them up in paper and handed them to Ted's
mother, who took out her purse and paid the money. The man thanked her,
and, followed by her little boy, Ted's mother left the shop.
Ted walked on silently, a very unusual state of things. He was trying to
find out how to express what he wanted to ask, and the ideas in his head
were so new and strange that he could not fit them with words all at
once. His mother turned round to him.
"Would you like to carry the parcel of baby's shoes for her?" she said.
"Oh ses," said Ted, holding out his left hand. But as his mother was
giving him the parcel she noticed that his right hand was already
engaged.
"Why, what have you got there?" she asked, "a stone? Where did you get
it? No, it's not a stone--why, can it be a lump of soda?"
"Ses," returned Ted with the greatest composure, "it are a lump of soda.
I thought it would be very suseful for thoo, so I took it out of that
nice man's shop."
"My dear little boy!" exclaimed his mother, looking I don't know how.
She was rather startled, but she could not help being amused too, only
she thought it better not to show Ted that she was amused. "My dear
little boy," she said again, "do you not understand? The things in the
shop belong to the man--they are his, not ours."
"Ses," said Ted. "I know. But he lets thoo take them. Thoo took soap and
somesing else, and he said he'd send them home for thoo."
"Yes, dear, so he did," said his mother. "But I _pay_ him for them. You
didn't see me paying him, because I don't pay him every time. He puts
down all I get in a book, and then he counts up how much it is every
month, and then I send him the money. In some shops I pay as soon as I
get the things. You saw me pay the shoemaker for little Cissy's boots
and shoes."
"Ses," said Ted, "I saw thoo take money out of thoo's purse, but I
didn't understand. I thought all those kind men kept nice things for us
to get whenever we wanted."
"But what did you think money was for, little Ted? You have often seen
money, shillings and sixpences and pennies? What did you think was the
use of it?"
"I thought," said Ted innocently, "I thought moneys was for giving to
poor peoples."
His mother could hardly resist stooping down in the street to kiss him.
But she knew it was better not. Ted must be made to understand that in
his innocence he had done a wrong thing, and the lesson of to-day must
be made a plain and lasting one.
"What would poor people do with money if they could get all the things
they wanted out of the shops for nothing?" she said quietly.
Ted considered a moment. Then he looked up brightly.
"In course!" he said. "I never thought of that."
"And don't you see, dear Ted, that it would be wrong to take things
out of a shop without paying for them? They _belong_ to the man of the
shop--it would be just like some one coming to our house and taking away
your father's coat or my bonnet, or your little blue cart that you like
so much, or----"
"Or Cissy's bootly boo boots," suggested Ted, clutching hold more
tightly of the parcel, as if he thought the imaginary thief might be
at hand.
"Yes," said his mother, "or Cissy's new boots, which are mine _now_
because I paid money for them to the man."
"Ses," said Ted. Then a very thoughtful expression came into his face.
"Muzzer," he said, "this soda was that man's--sall I take it back to him
and tell him I didn't understand?"
"Yes," said his mother. "I do think it is the best thing to do. Shall we
go at once? It is only just round the corner to his shop."
She said this thinking that little Ted would find it easier to do it
at once, for she was sorry for her little boy having to explain to a
stranger the queer mistake he had made, though she felt it was right
that it should be done. "Shall we go at once?" she repeated, looking
rather anxiously at the small figure beside her.
"Ses," said Ted, and rather to her surprise his tone was quite bright
and cheery. So they turned back and walked down the street till they
came to the corner near which was the grocer's shop.
Ted's mother had taken the parcel of the little boots from him and held
him by the hand, to give him courage as it were. But he marched on quite
steadily without the least flinching or dragging back, and when they
reached the shop it was he who went in first. He walked straight up to
the counter and held out the lump of soda to the shopman.
"Please, man," he said, "I didn't know I should pay money for this. I
didn't understand till muzzer told me, and so I've brought it back."
The grocer looked at him in surprise, but with a smile on his face, for
he was a kind man, with little boys and girls of his own. But before he
said anything, Ted's mother came forward to explain that it was almost
the first time her little boy had been in a shop; he had not before
understood what buying and selling meant, but now that she had explained
it to him, she thought it right for him himself to bring back the lump
of soda.
"And indeed it was his own wish to do so," she added.
The grocer thanked her. It was not of the least consequence to him of
course he said, but still he was a sensible man and he respected Ted's
mother for what she had done. And then, half afraid that her little
boy's self-control would not last much longer, she took him by the hand,
and bidding the shopman good-day they left the shop. As they came out
into the street again she looked down at Ted. To her surprise his little
face was quite bright and happy.
"He were a kind man," said Ted; "he wasn't vexed with Ted. He knew I
didn't understand."
"Yes, dear," said his mother, pleased to see the simple straightforward
way in which Ted had taken the lesson; "but _now_, Ted, you do understand,
and you would never again touch anything in a shop, would you?"
"Oh no, muzzer, in course not," said Ted, his face flushing a little.
"Ted would _never_ take nothing that wasn't his--_never_; thoo knows
that, muzzer?" he added anxiously.
"Yes, my dear little boy," and this time his mother _did_ stoop down and
kiss him in the street.