WISHES AND CHESTNUT ROASTING.
The possible stands by us ever fresh,
Fairer than aught which any life hath owned.
* * * * * * * * *
A healthful hunger for the great idea,
The beauty and the blessedness of life.
_Gladys and her Island._ J. INGELOW.
The school-room at Trenant was quite the favourite room in the whole
house. In summer time its two French windows, opening on to the
lawn, gave a cool out of door feeling, and, if you are obliged to
spend a lovely June morning in the house, it is some consolation to
have Nature brought as near to you as possible; in winter its
coziness was admitted by all, its fireplace was large and burnt
better than any other, its half high brass fender made an enchanting
footstool, its old-fashioned sofa was exactly the shape which tempts
you to curl yourself up with a story-book and forget the cold, and
its bookshelves contained such a heterogeneous assortment of volumes
that almost everyone could find something to his or her special
taste. But the time most favourable of all to the school-room, was
the time known as "blind man's holiday" in the winter; it had long
been the favourite family gathering place, and on the afternoon of
New Year's day--the same New Year which had brought sorrow and
bereavement to Oakdene Manor--a very merry party had congregated
round the hearth. In the centre of the group knelt Gladys with one
arm round Jackie to ward off all danger of fire accidents, and with
the other spare hand distributing smooth, brown, hard-skinned
chestnuts from a bag; the school-boys, home for their Christmas
holidays, sat on the fender punching holes in the nuts before they
were put down to roast, and Stephen Causton stood, poker in hand,
ready to rake out the lowest bar of the grate at the last moment. It
was what Gladys called a "toasty" fire, not a blazing one, but a deep
still red one which sent out as much heat as could possibly be
desired, and cast a rich glow over wall and ceiling, making the holly
wreaths on the picture frames shine out in bold contrast to the
blackness of the shadows, and adding such lustre to the old green
curtains and furniture, that their faded shabbiness was no longer
noticeable. The faces, too, of the little group were ruddy in the
firelight, and the golden threads in Gladys' brown hair shone out
brightly as she bent down over the wriggling struggling Jackie, whose
patience was sorely tried by the slowness with which the chestnuts
roasted.
"We must take some to mother and Aunt Margaret in the drawing-room,"
said Gladys; "how soon will they be ready, Stephen?"
"Not yet; besides, I'm certain my mother wouldn't touch one," said
Stephen, a little sulkily, "she doesn't understand that sort of
thing."
"My stars! What, not like chestnuts!" ejaculated Bertie, with raised
eyebrows.
Gladys and Stephen laughed a little, it was not exactly the want of
appreciation of chestnuts which had given the sullen tone to the
assertion; Mrs. Causton's utter contempt for the things of this world
was not a little trying to her son, and Gladys understood that it was
this in general to which he referred. Certainly it did seem a pity,
she thought, that Aunt Margaret should speak so very unreservedly,
and often so very inopportunely, about religious details, and it
seemed strange that she did not notice how it repelled and annoyed
her son.
Stephen had left Porthkerran in the previous October, and was now
"walking the hospitals." The few months of London life seemed
already to have altered him a good deal, he was older, more decided
and opinionated, even--Gladys fancied--a little less refined than
when he left. But the change which she noticed chiefly in him was an
increased dislike to Mrs. Causton's peculiar little phrases and her
untimely allusions. His mother worried him, and he allowed this to
appear far too plainly.
"Let us wish over them," said Jackie, meditatively, "cos you know
it's quite the first time this year we've eaten them."
"I know what the Jackal would wish for," said Bertie, teazingly,
"he'd wish for jam at tea; wishing's awful bosh, Jackie, you mustn't
be such a baby."
The corners of Jackie's mouth were turned down ominously, and nothing
but Gladys' promptitude averted a storm.
"Nonsense, Bert, he wouldn't do anything of the kind; we shall all
wish over them, and Jackie shall have the first that's done, because
he's the youngest; now, Jack, a very wise wish; what is it to be?"
Jackie thought for the space of thirty seconds, while he tore open
the hot chestnut. Then with the conscious importance of one who
looks far into the dim future, he announced,
"I wish to be a tiger-hunter in Africa, I shall not go now, I shall
wait till I'm sixteen, then I shall be a man, and I shall shoot all
the animals, escept a few which I shall catch with nets, and bling
home to keep in the nursely."
This wish excited a good deal of laughter, for the heroic
tiger-hunter of the future had been known to run away from a
good-sized dog, and the unkind brothers were sceptical as to the
bravery his sixteen years would bring him; but Jackie gnawed his
chestnut contentedly, and joined in the laughter.
Nor did the wishes of the other boys rival his in enterprise. Bertie
wished to be a sailor like Dick, with a "jolly lot" of climbing to
do. Harold aspired to an archbishopric, because it would be "such a
lark to be cock of the walk, and to have a big palace to live in."
Stephen expressed a modest wish to discover something like the
"circulation of the blood," as Harvey had done, and make himself a
name to be remembered.
Last of all came Gladys' wish, and all eyes turned upon her as she
tossed a chestnut to and fro in her hands, and thought. At last
raising her face, she said,
"I wish to be like the people in 'Real Folks,' who got a lot of
little children together on Saturday afternoons, in some great, bad
town, and gave them a 'good time.'"
"Dirty little children--ugh!" exclaimed Bertie, in disgust.
"Beastly!" said the archbishop of the future, laconically.
"Oh! if you want dirty children," said Stephen, "come to Lambeth.
You'll see a goodish few there."
As he spoke the door was opened by Mrs. Tremain.
"All in the gloaming," she said, brightly. "I told Aunt Margaret we
should most likely find you here; what a delicious smell of roasting!"
"It's chestnuts, mammy," shouted Jackie, at the top of his voice, as
he dragged his mother to a chair, and took up the position on her
knee to which, in Nesta's absence, his right was indisputable.
"Mammy, do eat this one, it's such a beauty."
"Aunt Margaret, do you like this low chair?" said Gladys, as Mrs.
Causton joined the group gathered round the fireplace.
"Thank you, my dear, no, I think I will sit at a little distance, as
I must face the cold outside in a minute, it is well not to enjoy too
much of the warmth. You have a very large fire."
This last sentence had something of reproach in it, and it stimulated
Stephen to a quick rejoinder.
"Prime, isn't it."
"Still," continued Mrs. Causton, "in such a severe winter it seems
almost incumbent on one not to be too lavish in the coals which are
so much needed by the poor."
"It doesn't make the poor people any warmer for us to be cold," said
Stephen, with a suppressed growl.
"Nurse always makes up big fires," said Gladys. "She says it's more
economical than always feeding a little one. Won't you have a
chestnut, auntie?"
"No, thank you, my dear. It is not more than two hours till dinner
time, and I do not think it well to eat between meals."
The chestnut-eaters, conscious of a wicked enjoyment, munched on in
silence, the idea of a possible abolition of all promiscuous and
informal "feedings" between meal times was not to be tolerated for an
instant.
Mrs. Tremain changed the subject.
"And you really go back to London to-morrow, Stephen? You have had a
very short holiday."
"Yes; still a few days is better than nothing," he answered, tilting
his chair backwards and forwards.
"I only hope, Stephen, that you'll work well," said his mother,
anxiously. "These long winter evenings are excellent for reading."
Stephen yawned.
"Do you like your lodgings?" asked Mrs. Tremain.
"Oh! they're awfully dull," said Stephen. "Still they're near the
hospital, and that's a great thing."
"And your landlady seems a thoroughly nice woman," said Mrs. Causton,
who had taken the rooms herself, and had been favourably impressed by
the four large family Bibles placed as ornaments on the conventional
lodging-house drawing-room table, as well as by the conversation of
the landlady.
"She's well enough," said Stephen, "when she's sober."
Mrs. Causton lamented the deceitfulness of appearances, and said she
would look out a tract which Stephen could give to the poor woman.
The younger boys, wearying of this talk, began to grow noisy, and it
was a relief to everyone, including Stephen, when Mrs. Causton said
it was time for them to go home.
When Gladys came back to the school-room, after seeing the last of
the two visitors, she found her mother alone; the children had
dispersed to their play, and Mrs. Tremain sat silently by the fire,
which had now sunk rather low.
"A few more coals, I think, dear," she said, as Gladys closed the
door and hurried towards the hearth, "and then, as the room is quiet,
I want to have a little talk with you."
Gladys put on the coals quickly; her mother's tone had made her feel
a little anxious, for though their "talks" together were many, they
were not generally spoken of beforehand in this way. Was there some
new arrangement to be made, some difficulty to be discussed? Could
there be bad news from Dick? Gladys tormented herself with a variety
of suppositions, and lifted up such an anxious face to her mother
that Mrs. Tremain could not help smiling.
"Did my voice sound so very serious," she said, "that you conjure up
all sorts of evils in a minute?"
"Oh! mother, how did you know I had?"
Mrs. Tremain smoothed the anxious, questioning forehead by way of
reply, then she began, without further delay, to relieve her child's
mind.
"Nothing is wrong at all, dear; but your Aunt Margaret has been
talking this afternoon to your father and me. You know that she has
taken a little villa at Richmond for the next six months; she wants
to be nearer Stephen, and, though she cannot live in London, she
thinks that, if she were there, Stephen could spend his Sundays with
her. But she dreads the loneliness very much, and cannot bear the
thought of settling down by herself in a strange place. She is very
anxious, dear, that you should go with her for a time."
Poor Gladys' heart sank; that indefinite expression, "a time," rang
unpleasantly in her ears, and the thought of being weeks, or perhaps
months, away from home, was terrible to her. Then, too, though she
was fond of Mrs. Causton, she was often a good deal annoyed by her
peculiarities; and if these were noticeable in the sort of
intercourse which they had had at Porthkerran, what would they not be
in the close intercourse of daily companionship? It was in rather a
choked voice that she asked, after a pause,
"_Must_ I go, mother?"
"It is, of course, dear, for you to decide," said Mrs. Tremain. "If
you feel very strongly against it, we should not think of sending
you."
"But you wish me to go," said Gladys, a little resentfully, feeling,
too, that the very fact of having the matter left in her own hands
hardly gave her the choice of doing as she wished; she could not
deliberately choose for herself the easy, comfortable, home-keeping
path which she longed to take.
"That is hardly a fair way of putting it," said Mrs. Tremain. "For
ourselves, darling, of course we want to keep you; for Mrs. Causton's
sake and your own, I should like you to go."
"For my own!" exclaimed Gladys, greatly surprised.
"Yes, quite for your own, dear; you have scarcely ever been away from
home, and it is time that you should see a little more of life; the
change will be good for you in every way. I think it will help to
widen you."
"You think me narrow-minded?" said Gladys, pouting.
"Yes, dear, I do--a little," said Mrs. Tremain, laughing. "I don't
think you have much sympathy with people you don't agree with, and
the best cure for that will be to get out of the old grooves for a
little time."
"But you surely don't want me to learn to think differently, and to
come home again not agreeing with you and papa?" questioned Gladys.
"No, certainly not; that would not be growing wider, only shifting
your narrowness in a new direction."
"But Aunt Margaret is the narrowest person imaginable," said Gladys,
perversely. "I shall only grow like her."
"I think not," said Mrs. Tremain; "you would more likely be driven to
the opposite extreme. But that is not exactly what I want; I want
you to learn to see her real goodness, and to sympathise with that,
trying to pass over the little things which annoy you. Besides, you
will see other people; the world of Richmond is larger than the world
of Porthkerran."
Gladys was not convinced all at once, but before many days had passed
her decision was made. Home was to be renounced for six long months,
and a new phase--not the least arduous--of her education was to be
begun under Mrs. Causton's guidance.
Her stay at Richmond was certainly productive of some good results.
Stephen found his home visits attractive, and never failed to appear
on Saturday afternoons. Mrs. Causton thoroughly enjoyed her bright
cheerful companion, and Gladys herself, in spite of unconquerable
home-sickness, found much that was pleasant in her new life, and for
many reasons never in after-years regretted the decision she had made.
She saw then, with the strange thrill of joy and wonder which such
realisations bring, that on this decision and on this visit to London
hinged almost all that was most dear to her in the future, and that,
unconsciously, she had then taken the first step towards the
attainment of her wish over the chestnut-roasting.
END OF THE FIRST VOLUME.
LONDON: PRINTED BY DUNCAN MACDONALD, BLENHEIM HOUSE.