'WHAT _CAN_ SHE MEAN?'
I remember that Monday afternoon so well. It was very interesting. Mr.
Lloyd was very kind and clever about things, and the carpenter, though a
rather slow, very silent man, understood his business and was quite
ready to do all that was wanted. Papa was as eager as a boy, and Geordie
full of ideas too. So between us we got it beautifully planned.
It was far nicer than I had dared to hope. They fixed to run a tiny
passage between the side of the hut where the room was to be placed, so
that the two doorways into it could both be used,--one to enter into
Geordie's room, so that he could run in and out without having to go
through mamma's or ours, and the other leading into mamma's, from which
we could pass to ours. And the partitions made them really as good as
three proper rooms, each with a nice window. There could be no
fireplace in ours, but as it was the middle one, and therefore sure to
be the warmest, that would not matter, as there were two, one at each
end in the iron room. If it was very cold, mamma said Esme and I might
undress in hers, and _dress_ in his, Geordie added, as he meant always
to be up very early and light his own fire to work by, which rather
amused us all, as he was _not_ famed for early rising. Indeed, I never
knew such a sleepy head as he was--poor old Dods!
We felt satisfied, as we walked home, that we had done a good day's
work.
'Though it _couldn't_ have been managed without the iron room,' Geordie
and I agreed.
And a day or two later we felt still more settled and pleased when mamma
told us that Hoskins and Margery were coming with us. Hoskins was just a
little melancholy about it all, not a bit for herself, I do believe, but
because she thought it would be 'such a change, so different' for mamma
and us.
She cheered up however when we reminded her how much nicer it would be
than a poky little house in a back street at Kirke, or, worse still,
away in some other place altogether, among strangers. And when she said
something about the cold, in case we stayed at the hut through the
winter, Geordie said we could afford plenty of fires as we should have
no rent to pay, and that _he_ was going to be 'stoker' for the whole
family.
'You won't need to look after any fire but your own, Master George,'
said she, 'and not that, unless it amuses you. Margery is not a lazy
girl--I would not own her for my niece if she was. And besides that,
there will be Barnes to help to carry in the coal.'
Barnes was one of the under-gardeners. He lived with his father and
mother at the Lodge, but he had never had anything to do with the house,
so I was surprised at what Hoskins said.
'Oh yes,' George explained, looking very business-like and nodding in a
way he had, 'that is one of the things papa and I have settled about. We
are rigging up a room for Barnes, much nearer than the Lodge--the old
woodman's hut within a stone's throw of _our_ hut, Ida, so that a
whistle would bring him in a moment. He will still live at the Lodge for
eating, you see, but he will come round first thing and last thing. He's
as proud as a peacock; he thinks he's going to be a kind of Robinson
Crusoe; it will be quite a nice little room; there is even a fireplace
in it. He says he won't need coals; there's such lots of brushwood
about.'
'_I_ have been thinking of that,' I said eagerly. 'It would seem much
more in keeping to burn brushwood than commonplace coals----'
'Except in my kitchen, if you please, Miss Ida,' put in Hoskins.
'And better still than brushwood,' I went on, taking no notice of
Hoskins's 'kitchen,'--I would much rather have had a gypsy fire with a
pot hanging on three iron rods, the way gypsies do, or are supposed to
do,--'better than brushwood, fir cones. They do smell so delicious when
they are burning. We might make a great heap of them before next winter.
It would give the children something to do when they are playing in the
wood.'
[Illustration: ORDERING DENZIL ABOUT AS USUAL.]
They--the two little ones--were of course in tremendous spirits about
the whole thing,--such spirits that they could not even look sad for
very long when at last--about three weeks after the days I have just
been describing--the sorrowful morning arrived on which dear papa had to
leave us. Esme cried loudly, as was her way; Denzil, more silently and
solemnly, as was his; but an hour or two afterwards we heard the little
butterfly laughing outside in the garden and ordering Denzil about as
usual.
'Never mind,' said mamma, glancing up from the lists of all sorts of
things she was already busy at and reading what was in my mind, 'rather
let us be glad that the child does not realise it. She is very young; it
does not mean that she is heartless,' and mamma herself choked down her
tears and turned again to her writing-table.
I too had done my best not to cry, though it was _very_ difficult. I
think George and I 'realised' it all--the long, lonely voyage for papa;
the risks at sea which are always there; the dangers for his health, for
the climate was a bad one, and it was not the safest season by any
means. All these, and then the possibility of great disappointment when
he got there--of finding that, after all, the discovery of things going
wrong had come too late to put them right, and of all that would follow
this--the leaving our dear, dear home, not for a few months, or even a
year, but for _always_.
It would not do even to think of it. And I had promised papa to be brave
and cheerful.
By this time I must explain that the Hut--from now I must write it with
a capital, as mamma did in her letters: 'The Hut, Eastercove' looked
quite grand, we thought--was ready for us to move into. Our tenants were
expected at the house in a week or ten days, and we were now to leave it
as soon as we could.
A great part of the arranging, carting down furniture, and so on had
been done, but it had been thought better to put off our actually taking
up our quarters in our quaint new home till after papa had gone. _He_
said it would have worried him rather if we had left sooner, but I know
the truth was, that he thought the having to be very busy, in a bustle
in fact, at once on his going, would be the best for us all--mamma
especially.
And a bustle it was, though things had been hurried on wonderfully fast.
The fixing up of the iron room was quite complete and the partitions
were already in their places, the furniture roughly in the rooms too.
But as everybody who has ever moved from one house to another knows,
there were still _heaps_ to be done, and seen to by ourselves, which no
work-people could do properly. And besides the arranging at the Hut of
course, there was a great deal for mamma to settle at the house, so as
to leave everything nice for the people who were coming.
That afternoon, I remember, the afternoon of the day papa left, we were
at the Hut till dark, working as hard as we could, even the little ones
helping, by running messages and fetching and carrying. And by the time
we went home we were very tired and beginning to find it very difficult
to look on the bright side of things.
'I don't believe it will ever be really comfortable for mamma,' said
Geordie in the growly tone he used when he was anxious or unhappy. 'It's
just a horrid business altogether. I don't believe papa will be able to
get things right, out at that old hole of a place, and even if he
doesn't get ill, as he very likely will, he'll only come home to leave
it for good--I mean we'll have to sell Eastercove. I'm almost sorry we
did not go away now at once and get it over.'
I glanced before us. Mamma was some little way in front--I could just
see her dimly, for it was dusk, with Denzil and Esme, one on each side;
Esme walking along soberly for once, and I caught snatches of mamma's
voice coming back to us, for there was a light, though rather chilly
evening breeze, blowing our way. I could hear that she was talking
brightly to the children; no doubt it was not easy for her to do so.
'Listen, Geordie,' I said, nodding forwards, so to say, towards mamma.
And he understood, though he did not say anything just at once.
'It is a good thing,' I went on, after a moment's silence, 'that the
wind is not the other way. I would not like her to hear you talking like
that, within a few hours of papa's going.'
It was not often--very, very seldom indeed--that I felt it my place to
blame good old Dods; and honestly, I don't think I did it or meant it in
any 'superior' way. I am sure I did not, for the words had scarcely
passed my lips before they seemed to me to have been unkind. Geordie was
tired; he had been working very hard the last few days, and even a
strong boy may feel out of heart when he is tired.
'I don't know what _I_ should do, not to speak of mamma,' I went on, 'if
you got gloomy about things. We all depend on you so,' and for a moment
or two I really felt as if I must begin to cry!
Then something crept round my neck, and I knew it was all right again.
The something was Geordie's arm, and it gave me a little hug, not the
most comfortable thing in the world when you are out walking, and it
tilts up your hat, but of course I did not mind.
'Yes, Ida,' he said, 'it's very babyish and cowardly of me, and I'm very
sorry. I won't be like that again, I promise you.'
Then I gave him a sort of a hug in return, and we hurried on a little,
not to leave mamma with the children dragging on at each side of her, as
they are apt to do when they are tired. We none of us spoke much the
rest of the way home, but Geordie said one or two little things about
how comfortable the Hut was getting to look and so on, which _I_
understood, and which prevented poor mamma's suspecting that he was at
all in low spirits.
When people really _try_ to do right, I think outside things often come
to help them. That very evening we were cheered and amused by a letter
which had arrived by the second post while we were all out--a quite
unexpected letter.
It was from a cousin of ours, a girl, though a grown-up one, whom we
were very fond of. She was _almost_ like a big sister, and her name was
Theresa. She was generally called 'Taisy' for short. I have not spoken
of her before; but, indeed, when I come to think of it I have not spoken
of any of our relations, I have been so entirely taken up with the Hut.
We had however none _very_ near. Taisy was almost the nearest. She lived
with her grandmother, who was papa's aunt, so Taisy was really only
second cousin to us children.
She was now about seventeen, and she was an orphan. Many people like her
would have been spoilt, for old Aunt Emmeline adored her and gave her
nearly everything she could possibly want. But Taisy wasn't a bit
spoilt.
She often came to stay with us, and one of the smaller parts of our big
trouble was that we could not look forward to having her _this_ year, at
any rate. Papa had written to Lady Emmeline to tell her of what had
happened; she was one of the few whom he felt he must write to about it,
and it was partly because of Taisy's not coming--I mean our not being
able to have her--that he did so.
And he had had a very kind letter back from his aunt. She wished she
could help him, but though she was comfortably off, her money was what
they call 'tied up,' somehow, and Taisy would have none of _hers_ till
she was twenty-one. Besides, papa was not the sort of man to take or
expect help, while he was strong and active and could work for us
himself, and it was the kind of trouble in which a little help would
really have been no use--a large fortune was at stake.
Taisy had not written; she had only sent loving messages to us all, and
something about that 'by hook or by crook' she must see us before the
summer was over.
But the letter to mamma which was waiting for us roused our curiosity,
and kept us quite bright and interested all that evening, in wondering
what she _could_ mean.
'Ever since I heard from grandmamma of your worries, dear auntie,' she
wrote,--I must explain that Taisy always called papa and mamma uncle and
aunt, though they were really only cousins,-'I have been thinking and
thinking about how I could still manage to pay you a visit. I really
cannot face the idea of all the long summer without seeing you.'
'It _is_ very dull for her at Longfields,' said mamma, interrupting
herself in the reading aloud the letter to us. 'Aunt Emmeline never has
cared much to have visitors, though she is a wonderfully strong and
active old lady. And now that Taisy is giving up regular lessons, it
will be still duller. But it can't be helped, I suppose. Yet I do wonder
what the child has in her head,' and she went on reading.
'And, once I was with you, I am _sure_ I would not be any trouble,
if only you had room for me. You don't know what a help I should
be! So--don't be surprised if you see a balloon coming down
towards the Hut one day, and me getting out of it. I have not got
my plan quite ready yet, and I am not going to say anything to
Granny about it till it is all cut and dried and ready to be
stacked!--though, as she always lets me do whatever I want, I am
not much afraid of her making any difficulties. Her old friend,
Miss Merry, will be coming over from Ireland as usual, I suppose,
and I am sure I should only be in the way, especially as I have no
governess now. My best love to you all, and I do hope dear Uncle
Jack will have a nice voyage and come back feeling quite happy
again.--Your loving
TAISY.'
'What _can_ she mean?' said Geordie, looking up with a puzzled face.
'Of course about a balloon is quite a joke, isn't it?' I said, though I
spoke rather doubtfully, not knowing much about balloons!
'Of course,' said Geordie, in a superior tone. 'Besides, there is no
difficulty about her getting to us. The railway and the roads are not
blocked up because of our troubles. The thing is, that there is nowhere
to put her if she did come.'
'No,' I agreed, running over the rooms at the Hut in my mind; 'we are
quite closely enough packed as it is. There isn't any possible corner
for another bed even.'
'Unless,' said Geordie slowly,--'unless you would let me really camp
out, mamma? I could rig up a little tent, or--I wouldn't much mind
sleeping in Barnes's hut?'
'No, no,' mamma replied decidedly. 'I could not allow anything of the
kind. Our living at the Hut is only possible because it is _not_ to be
like rough camping out, but as healthy and "civilised" as if we were in
a house. So put that out of your head, my dear boy. I could not risk
your catching cold, or anything of that sort. Remember, I feel
responsible to your father in _my_ way for you all, just as you two big
ones feel so for me,' she added with one of her own dear smiles.
'And then, Dods,' I said, 'it wouldn't be safe--I know _I_ wouldn't feel
safe--without having you actually in the house, even though Barnes's
hut is so near.'
I think Geordie liked my saying that. But I really meant it.
So we went on wondering and puzzling as to what Taisy meant. It was
quite an amusement to us that first evening of papa's being away. And it
was worth wondering about, for Taisy was a very clever girl--what is
called 'practical.'
'If she could come and be with us, I'm sure she would be a great help,'
I thought. 'She is so full of nice ideas and funny ones too, and she
never has headaches or neuralgia or horrid things like that. And yet she
is _so_ kind--I remember that time I sprained my ankle. She was so
good.'
The next few days were so busy, however, that all thought even of Taisy
and her balloon went out of our heads. I only remember packings and
unpackings and arranging and rearrangings, all in a jumble together,
ending, nevertheless, in a great deal of satisfaction. The afternoon we
went to the Hut 'for good,' it really looked nice enough for us to feel
it, for the time, more 'home' than the big house, which, on the surface,
seemed rather upset still, though in reality it was nearly ready for the
tenants, having gone through a magnificent spring cleaning. But our own
little belongings were absent, and such of the rooms as were quite in
order, to our eyes looked bare and unfamiliar, so that we were not sorry
to be actually settled at the Hut.
The evenings were still a little chilly, which I, for one, did not
regret, as it gave an excuse for nice bright fires in the sitting-rooms
and mamma's bedroom. And the children had already picked up a good lot
of fir cones, so that the pleasant scent of the trees seemed to be
inside as well as out of doors.
'It _is_ cosy, isn't it, mamma?' I said, as we stood for a minute or two
in what was now the little drawing-room; 'and oh, _aren't_ you glad not
to be starting on a railway journey to some strange place, or even
driving to that little house at Kirke which you told me about as the
best we could have got?'
'Yes, indeed, darling,' mamma replied. 'And I am _so_ glad to be able to
date my first letter to papa from the Hut. I must make time to write to
him to-morrow morning; it will just catch the mail.'
'And to-night,' I went on, 'you must rest. There isn't really very much
more to do, is there? Not at least anything that we need hurry about.'
'No,' said mamma, looking round. But she spoke rather doubtfully, and I
felt that she was longing to get everything into perfectly 'apple-pie
order,' though what that means I have never been able to understand, for
as far as we know them nowadays, apple-pies are rather untidy-looking!
'There is very little now for me to see to at--home--at the house,' she
went on. 'I am not going there at all for a day or two, and then just to
give a look round and pay the wages owing till the Trevors come.'
The Trevors were our tenants--a mother and an invalid son, and a
not-very-young daughter--and several of our servants were staying on
with them, which we were very glad of.
'And I want,' mamma began again, 'to get things started here regularly.
Your lessons, and the little ones' too, and--and--everything. Our own
clothes will take some time to arrange, and I must not expect Hoskins to
be everywhere at once.
'I will do _lots_, mamma,' I said. 'You don't know what I can do when I
regularly set-to, and I promise you I won't open a story-book till the
boxes are unpacked and arranged,' though I gave a little silent sigh as
I said this. There seemed such heaps to unpack, for you see we had had
to bring all our winter things with us too, and I was sensible enough
to know that there must now be a lot of planning how to make frocks and
coats and things last, that hitherto we should have given away without a
second thought to those whom they might be of use to. And in my secret
heart I was trembling a little at the idea that perhaps one of the
things I should have to 'set-to' at would be sewing--above all, mending!
'For of course, as mamma says,' I reflected, 'we can't expect Hoskins to
do _everything_! And I knew it was a case of just spending the very
least we could--without risking health or necessary comforts--till papa
came home again, or at least till he got _some_ idea of what the future
was likely to be.
But for the moment it was worse than foolish to go on looking forward,
when the _present_ was pretty clearly to be seen. And just then Esme
came dancing in to tell us that tea was ready in the dining-room.
'Quite ready and getting cold. So come quick,' she said.