Introduces Miss Goodwin
"DORA and I passed Haresdown House this morning," Dinah Mickle
informed her mother one afternoon early in the new year; "the windows
were all wide open, and there were people at work inside, papering
and painting."
The Christmas holidays were nearly at an end, and Dinah was assisting
Mrs. Mickle in the making of some garments for her sister and
herself, whilst the other children had gone off on pleasure bent,
Dora and Tom for a long walk, and Gilbert on his own account, for he
seldom fraternized with his juniors.
"There were two men in the garden pruning the shrubs and turning up
the ground," the little girl proceeded, "so I expect Mr. Bailey will
soon be here himself; don't you think so?"
"Yes," Mrs. Mickle replied; "in fact, I know your father heard from
him a few days ago, and he then wrote that he hoped shortly to be at
Wreyford."
"I wonder if he is very rich," Dinah said meditatively; "Gilbert says
Colonials generally are. Do you know, mother?"
"No, my dear; but I imagine he must be very well off. Your father
says he means to spare no expense in doing up Haresdown House; and,
as you know, he has subscribed largely to several Wreyford charities
this Christmas."
"He will have a big house to live in!" Dinah exclaimed.
"I think his buying it was entirely a matter of sentiment; you see,
it was his childhood's home, and it is curious how elderly people
like to return to the scenes of their youth, even when—" Mrs. Mickle
paused abruptly, and listened to the sound of voices on the
staircase. "I believe Miss Goodwin is coming," she said, a slightly
amused smile crossing her face.
The next moment the parlour-maid announced "Miss Goodwin!" and a
queer-looking little person stepped into the room, and paused
irresolutely, with her head on one side.
She was clad in an old-fashioned brown silk gown and a circular brown
cloak, whilst a poke bonnet covered her head, the hair on which was
as white as snow and arranged in little corkscrew curls. Her figure
was slight, and as upright as a dart; her eyes singularly blue and
clear, and so youthful in expression that they contrasted oddly with
her wrinkled countenance, which was one network of fine lines. It was
difficult to guess from her appearance what age she was, but she was
known to be nearer ninety than eighty; she never thought of herself
as old, though, and was so lively in her manner, and juvenile in her
conversation at times, that she often proved a puzzle to new
acquaintances.
"Do I intrude?" she asked in a high piping voice, as she stood just
within the room, looking at the table laden with working materials.
"If so, I will go, and call upon you at a more convenient season."
"We are very pleased to see you, dear Miss Goodwin," Mrs. Mickle said
cordially, as she took her visitor's little hand, encased in a baggy,
brown kid glove, and pressed it kindly. "Come near the fire, and warm
yourself; I am sure you must be cold."
"Oh no, not very," Miss Goodwin responded; nevertheless, she allowed
herself to be placed in an easy chair by the fireside. "I left my
waterproof and goloshes in the hall," she explained, for it was one
of her peculiarities, however fine the weather might be, to be
prepared for rain. "The sun is shining brightly now," she went on,
"but who can say how long it will be before the clouds come? We never
know."
"No, never," Mrs. Mickle agreed, smiling pleasantly.
"I remember once going to a picnic attired in a muslin gown," Miss
Goodwin continued, looking thoughtful, "and before the day was over
the rain descended in torrents, drenching me to the skin; I had
foolishly omitted taking my waterproof and goloshes with me. I learnt
a lesson then which I have never forgotten, for I caught a severe
cold, and spoilt my gown—a new one."
Dinah could not restrain a slight laugh, for she had heard this story
so many times before; Miss Goodwin had a number of stock tales which
she was in the habit of telling over and over again.
"Dinah, my dear child, you have not spoken to me yet!" the old lady
exclaimed, as the little girl's laugh attracted her attention.
"I am waiting to do so, Miss Goodwin," Dinah answered, feeling rather
ashamed of her merriment, though the visitor was quite unconscious
of its cause. She bent and kissed the other's wrinkled cheek. "How do
you do?" she said.
"I am very well, thank you, my dear. I need not inquire how you are,
for you look blooming. Such a rosy face! Such bright eyes! Dear me,
Mrs. Mickle, how old these young people make us feel!"
It was another of Miss Goodwin's peculiarities that she always spoke
of herself as a contemporary of Mrs. Mickle's; and although she
talked of feeling old, that was certainly not the case, for to the
end of her days she was always young in heart.
"It is very nice for me that Dinah is of an age to be helpful,"
Mrs. Mickle remarked, with a smiling glance at her daughter; "she has
remained at home this afternoon to assist me with this needlework."
"Please do not let me interrupt. Pray proceed with your work, and I
will converse with you meanwhile." Then, as her companions complied
with her wish, the old lady added: "I have just come from Haresdown
House."
"Indeed!" Mrs. Mickle exclaimed. "Did you go inside?"
"I did, from curiosity I must admit, to see what the new owner is
having done. I knew him when he was a boy, you understand;
a masterful youth he was, but the owner of a kind and generous heart.
Has he made his fortune, do you know?"
"I imagine he has, Miss Goodwin. He lived many years in Australia,
it seems."
"Ah, I cannot keep count of time. Yes, Edward Bailey was a fine lad,
and so was his brother. One went to Australia; the other became a
clergyman, he always reminded me of that Nathanael Jesus loved,
the one in whom there was no guile. He died, leaving a widow and one
child—a son."
"That must be the father of the little girl Mr. Bailey brought here
with him," Mrs. Mickle said, her face full of interest. "I believe
I told you how we became acquainted with them. You will like to meet
Mr. Bailey again, I am sure."
"It will give me great pleasure to do so. I remember him so well—
a tall, slight, fair-haired boy."
"But he is elderly now," Mrs. Mickle reminded her visitor gently;
"some people would, I have no doubt, call him an old man."
"He is younger than me," Miss Goodwin said; "indeed, I can remember
the birth of himself and his brother. I do not think any one could
call him old."
There was a note of reproach in the clear, piping voice, which Mrs.
Mickle was quick to remark; she hastened to change the conversation.
"You will remain to tea, will you not?" she asked brightly. "Oh, do!
The children will be here presently, and you may rely upon Tom to see
you home safely in the evening."
"Let me take off your bonnet and cloak," Dinah said; and after feebly
protesting, Miss Goodwin gave in, and allowed the little girl to have
her way.
"I am a very frequent visitor," the old lady remarked
half-apologetically as she patted her snowy curls, "but you are such
hospitable people, and so very kind, that I never can refuse your
invitations. I am glad I put a clean tucker to my dress,"
she continued artlessly, "for, at any rate, I have the satisfaction
of being certain I look tidy. It is another lesson to show that one
ought always to be ready for any emergency."
"And how are they getting on at Haresdown House?" Mrs. Mickle
inquired. "Will the workmen soon finish?"
"Oh, not for some weeks, I imagine," Miss Goodwin responded. "I went
into every room, and looked at the wall-papers; and the workmen were
most polite. They gave me all the information I wanted."
"Yes?"
"The house is to be thoroughly repaired and renovated. Dear me,
it will be like old times to see the place occupied once more.
It always made me sad to see it looking so neglected and desolate."
After a little further conversation, Dora and Tom arrived upon the
scene. Their bright faces broke into smiles of welcome at the sight
of the visitor, for she was a great favourite with all the children;
even Gilbert generally laid a restraint upon his sharp tongue in her
presence. But this afternoon Gilbert did not put in an appearance
till tea was nearly over; he apologized for being so late, but
promptly snubbed his brother for asking him where he had been all
the afternoon.
"You needn't be so nasty," Tom said, adding in the teazing way which
was always particularly irritating to Gilbert's touchy temper,
"I suppose you've been up to no good, or you wouldn't make
a mystery."
"I don't know what you mean," Gilbert retorted hotly. "I'm making
no mystery."
"What do you call it, then? Dora and I have been for a fine walk
across country, over hedges and ditches, and have had a simply
splendid time. We don't mind telling where we've been and what we've
been doing. Isn't father coming up to tea, mother?"
"No, my dear," Mrs. Mickle answered. "I believe he has a client
with him; he told me after dinner that he would be particularly
engaged this afternoon, so I have promised Miss Goodwin that you will
see her home by-and-by."
"So I will!" Tom cried gaily. "I'll take good care of you,
Miss Goodwin."
"I am sure you will, Tom," the little lady replied, her eyes dwelling
admiringly on the boy's healthy, honest face. "What a blessing it is
to be young and strong," she continued; "a little bird told me you
were one of the best football players at the Grammar School."
Tom flushed with pleasure, and laughed in a flattered, self-conscious
manner, which made his brother look at him with a sneer.
"Come and see me play in the next match, Miss Goodwin," the younger
boy said eagerly, not noticing the expression on Gilbert's face.
"But I was never at a football match in my life," she told him. "I am
not certain that I should like to see a game played. It would make me
nervous."
"Yes, I expect it would," Mrs. Mickle agreed. Then, glancing at her
elder son, she said, "You are eating nothing, Gilbert."
"I am not hungry, mother."
"I should have thought the keen air would have given you
an appetite."
"I have not been out of doors."
"Not been out of doors!" Mrs. Mickle echoed in surprise. "Do you mean
you have been in the house all the afternoon?"
Gilbert nodded, and looked as though he would rather not be
questioned further. Tom stared at him in wide-eyed astonishment,
for being open concerning his own doings, he never could understand
his brother's more reserved disposition.
"I know where he's been!" the younger boy cried at length. "I have it
now. He must have spent all the afternoon in the attic. He was there
yesterday, I know, because the door was locked, and—"
"Well, what if it was?" Gilbert demanded crossly. "I didn't want you
poking and prying about the place. I locked the door to keep
you out."
"Don't wrangle, boys," Mrs. Mickle interposed pacifically. "I wish,
Gilbert," she said with a slight sigh, "that you would get out more
this fine weather. Soon you will be back at school again, and then
you will be obliged to remain indoors."
Shortly after tea Miss Goodwin left, and was escorted home by Tom,
who carried her waterproof and goloshes, and made himself a most
entertaining companion by good-humouredly listening to the little
lady's chatter. She lived in a small, detached house close to the
town, at the bottom of the road leading up Haresdown Hill, so they
had not far to go. It stood in a sheltered spot, and a large myrtle
flourished against the wall close to the front door, hence the name
of the house, Myrtle Villa.
Whilst Tom was seeing Miss Goodwin home, Mrs. Mickle and Gilbert had
been left in the sitting-room together, the little girls having gone
upstairs to their own room. For a while there was silence between
mother and son, but at last the former spoke.
"You must have been nearly frozen in the attic this afternoon,"
she said gently. "Why do you make a mystery about what you do there?"
The boy made no reply. He had flung himself into an easy chair, and
was gazing gloomily into the fire. Mrs. Mickle repeated her question,
speaking sharply this time, annoyed at his silence.
"I beg your pardon, mother," he cried hastily. "I was doing no harm
in the attic."
"I never imagined that for a moment. But why not be open? It is not
nice of you to be so secretive."
"Tom humbugs so. If he knew what I was doing he would be always
worrying around me."
"But what were you doing, my dear?"
Thus pressed Gilbert confessed that he had turned a part of the attic
into a sort of studio, and was trying to learn to draw and paint.
"I did not want any one to know about it," he explained, "because Tom
chatters so, and the girls are so inquisitive, and father wants me
to be a lawyer. I don't want to be a lawyer. I would far rather be
an artist."
Mrs. Mickle's face was expressive of anxious thought. She knew
Gilbert had a liking for painting, and drew very well; but he was
quite self-taught, and she did not know if he possessed real talent
or not. Her husband had always intended the boy should follow his own
profession, and hitherto Gilbert had raised no objection to the plan.
"I wish you were more open with your father and me," she said
presently, "but you wrap yourself up in yourself, and seldom confide
in us. If we were unsympathetic parents it would be different.
I cannot understand why you do not open your mind to us, Gilbert.
You know how dear you are to us, and how there is nothing, in reason,
we would not do for your happiness. Why cannot you be frank with us?"
"I don't know, mother," the boy answered. "I think I am frank with
you generally, because you're more patient with me than I deserve;
and so is father, too, for that matter. But I hate Tom and the girls
to know all I'm doing."
"Tom is a great tease," Mrs. Mickle allowed, "but he is a
well-meaning boy and as honest and open as the day."
"I know he is, mother, and I'm not. Every one likes Tom, even little
Miss Goodwin, and no one cares about me—I mean, no outsiders."
"Don't you think that's your own fault? You cannot expect people
to like you if you persist in showing them the worst side of your
character; if you are unsociable and reserved, no one will want to be
friendly with you. Why did you not say how you were employing your
time in the attic? The others would not have intruded on you if you
had asked them not to. Instead of explaining, you act so as to arouse
their curiosity. Oh, you foolish boy!"
Gilbert flushed, and looked rather ashamed of himself, but he did not
resent his mother's plain speaking. His face softened as she
continued talking to him, and presently he looked at her with a smile
in his usually sombre eyes.
"Gilbert," she said tenderly, "I wish you had found the secret
of happiness; perhaps you will some day. I pray you may. If only you
could learn to put your faith in God, to forget yourself and think
of others more!"
The boy made no answer in words, but he laid his hand on one of the
crutches which rested against the arm of his chair, and his mother
understood the action as a reminder of the heavy cross he had
to bear. The tears rushed to her eyes, but did not fall. It was
minutes before she could be certain of speaking steadily; then, when
she could control her voice, she laid her hand on his, which rested
on the crutch, and smiled into his face.
"Remember, dear," she said earnestly, "no cross, no crown."