'YOU DO UNDERSTAND SO WELL, MAMMA'
I shall never forget the first morning's awaking in the Hut. Well, as I
knew it, it seemed as if I had not till then ever been there before. I
do not mean so much the actual waking; that of course is always a little
confusing, even if only in a different _room_ from the one you are used
to, and I was particularly accustomed to my own room at Eastercove, as
we were not people who went away very much. We loved home too well for
that.
No, though I rubbed my eyes and stared about me and wondered why the
window had changed its place, I soon remembered where I was, especially
when I caught sight of Esme's little bed beside mine, and of Esme's pink
cheeks and bright hair as she lay fast asleep still, looking like a
comfortable doll.
I was thinking rather of the feelings I had when I was dressed--I
dressed very quickly, despising any warm water in my bath for once, and
moved about very quietly, so as not to waken Esme and thereby vex
Hoskins the very first morning--and made my way out to the porch and
stood there gazing about me.
It was not so very early after all--half-past seven by mamma's little
clock in the drawing-room, and I heard the servants working busily in
the kitchen and dining-room, though there was no sound from poor old
Geordie's corner, in spite of his overnight intentions of being up by
six!
But outside it seemed very, very early. It was so absolutely _alone_--so
strangely far from any sight or sound of common human life, except for
just one little thing--a tiny white sail, far, far away on the
horizon--a mere speck it seemed. And below where I stood,--I think I
have said that the hut was on a sort of 'plateau,--' though at some
little distance, came the sound of the waves, lapping in softly, for it
was a calm day, and now and then the flash of a gull as it flew past, or
the faint, peculiar cry of some other sea-bird or coast-bird nearer
inland. For the spot was so quiet and seemingly isolated that rather
wild, shy birds were not afraid of visiting it, even when there was no
stormy weather or signs of such out at sea.
And behind me were our dear pine woods, and the feeling of the squirrels
and the home birds all busy and happy in the coming of the spring,
though any sounds from there were very vague and soft.
At first I did not know what it all reminded me of. Something out of my
own experiences I knew, but I had to think for a minute or two before it
came back to my mind. And then I remembered that it was a story in a
French book that mamma had read to us, partly in French, which Geordie
and I knew fairly well, and partly translating as she read. It was
called _Les Ailes de Courage_, by some great French author, who wrote
it, I think, for his or her grandchildren, and it is almost the most
interesting and strangest story I ever heard--about a boy who lived
quite, quite alone in a cave by the seashore, and got to know all the
wild creatures and their habits in the most wonderful way, so that they
came to trust him as if he was one of themselves. I cannot give any
right idea of the story; I doubt if any one could, but I wish you--if
'you' ever come to exist--would all read it.
Just as I was standing there, pleased to have remembered the
association in my mind, I felt a hand slipped gently round my neck. It
was not one of Geordie's 'hugs,' and I looked up in surprise. It was
mamma.
'How quietly you came,' I said; 'and oh, mamma, _doesn't_ it remind you
of _Les Ailes de Courage_?'
'Yes,' she replied, 'I know exactly what you mean.'
And then we stood perfectly still and silent for a moment or two, taking
it all in, more and more, till a _very_ tiny sigh from mamma reminded me
of something else--that dear papa was on that same great sea that we
were gazing at--perhaps standing on the deck of the steamer and thinking
of us--but _so_ far away already!
'It is chilly,' said mamma, 'and we must not begin our life here by
catching cold. We had better go in, dear. I think it is going to be a
lovely day, but in the meantime I hope Hoskins has given us a fire in
the dining-room.'
Yes--a nice bright little fire was crackling away merrily, a handful or
two of the children's cones on the top. And the room looked quite cosy
and tidy, as Margery had finished dusting and so on, in here, and was
now busy at the other side.
'I will go and see how Esme is getting on,' said mamma. 'She had had
her bath before I came out, but there may be difficulties with her hair.
And you might hurry up the boys, Ida, for I have promised Hoskins to be
very punctual, and breakfast will be ready by eight.'
It was a good thing I did go to hurry up the boys--they were both fast
asleep! Geordie looked dreadfully ashamed when I at last managed to get
him really awake, and Denzil almost began to cry. He had planned with
Esme, he said, to have a run down to the sands before breakfast, and
Hoskins knew and had promised them a slice of bread and butter and a
drink of milk.
'Did she not wake you then?' I asked. 'She woke Esme at seven, but I was
already up.'
Geordie could not remember if he had been awakened or not. Denzil
thought Margery had come in and said something about 'seven o'clock,'
but it was all mixed up with a wonderful dream that he wanted me to stay
to listen to, about a balloon (he had heard us talking about Taisy's
balloon) with long cords hanging from it, like those in the
grandfather's clock in the hall 'at home,' for you to climb up and down
by, as if they were rope-ladders.
'You must have gone to sleep again and dreamt it through the word
"o'clock" getting into your brain,' I said, whereupon I felt as if I had
got out of the frying-pan into the fire, for instead of telling the rest
of his dream, Denzil now wanted to know exactly what I meant, and what
his brain was 'like,' and how a word could get into it--was it a box in
his head, and his ears the doors, etc., etc.--Denzil had a dreadfully
'inquiring mind,' in those days--till I really had to cut him short and
fly.
'You will neither of you be ready for breakfast, as it is,' I said; 'and
if you are not quick you will have none at all, or at least quite cold.'
I nearly ran against the coffee, which Hoskins was just carrying in, as
I got to the dining-room door, which would not have been a happy
beginning. But I pulled up just in time, and took in good part Hoskins's
reminder that it wouldn't do to rush about as if we were in the wide
passages at home. Then she went on to tell me what it all made her think
of, she was so glad to have remembered.
'It is just like a _ship_, Miss Ida. I have never been at sea, but I
spent a day or two once on board one of the big steamers at Southampton
that a cousin of my mother's is stewardess of. Yes, it's that that's
been running in my head.'
'It can't have been a _very_ big one, then,' I said, rather pertly, I am
afraid. But Hoskins did not see the joke.
'Oh, but it was, Miss Ida,' she went on, after she had placed the
coffee-pot in safety. 'The big rooms, saloons, as they call them, were
really beautiful, but the passages quite narrow, and the kitchens and
pantries so small, you'd wonder they do do any washing-up in them, let
alone cooking. Not an inch of space lost, you may say. And as to how
they manage in rough weather when everything's atop of the other, it's
just wonderful, not that I've any wish to see for myself; the sea's all
very well to be beside of, but as for going _on_ it,' and Hoskins shook
her head, but said no more. For mamma just then came into the room, and
the kind-hearted woman did not want to remind her who _was_ on the sea
at the present moment.
We three--mamma and Esme and I--had made some way with our breakfast
before the two lazy ones joined us, Geordie rather shy and ashamed;
Denzil eager to explain the whole story of his dream, and to tease poor
mamma about his brain and how it was made and what it was like, till I
did wish I had not mentioned its existence to him.
I don't remember anything very particularly interesting in the course
of the first few days at the Hut, or rather perhaps, _everything_ was so
interesting that no one thing stands out very much in my memory or in my
diary. I kept a diary in those days, as I daresay you who read this have
suspected, otherwise I could not have been so exact about details,
though it needs no diary to remind myself of the _feeling_ of it all, of
the curious charm of the half gypsy life. Not that it really was nearly
as 'gypsy' as we would have liked it to be, or as we _thought_ we would
have liked it to be! It was really so comfortable, and we were all so
pleased with our own efforts to make it so, and their success, that by
the end of a week or ten days we began to long for some adventures.
'A storm,' said Geordie one day,--'a storm at sea. How would that do?
Not a very bad one of course, and------'
'No,' I said decidedly, frowning at him to remind him about papa's being
on the sea,--'no, that wouldn't do at all. Besides, there never are
storms at this time of year. It's past the bad time. No, something more
like real gypsies camping near us, and coming to ask us to lend them
things, and telling our fortunes.'
But at this idea _mamma_ shook her head.
'No, thank you,' she said, though she smiled; 'I have no wish for any
such neighbours. Besides, Ida, you forget that though we are living in a
hut, we are still at home on our own ground, and certainly gypsies have
never been allowed to camp inside the lodge gates.'
'They never come nearer than Kirke Common now,' said George. 'They have
been frightened of Eastercove, Barnes says, ever since papa was made a
magistrate.'
'I think we must be content if we want adventures,' said mamma, 'with
reading some aloud. I have got one or two nice books that none of you
know, and I think it would be a very good plan to read aloud in the
evenings.'
We were not very eager about it. We liked very much to be read to, but
we were not fond of being the readers, and though mamma read aloud
beautifully, I knew it was not right to let it all fall upon her, as her
voice was not very strong.
'It isn't as if Taisy were here, to take turns with you, mamma,' I said,
'as she always does.'
'After this week,' said mamma, 'you will not want any more excitement,
for we must really arrange about your lessons, Ida--yours and the
little ones. And Geordie, of course, will begin again regularly with Mr.
Lloyd, now that we are settled.'
Our daily governess was given up. She was not now quite 'advanced'
enough for me, and to have her for Denzil and Esme alone was very
expensive, so it had been fixed that I was to work with mamma; and, on
the other hand, be myself teacher to the little ones for the time. Mamma
had thought she would have so much less to do, with papa away, and no
calls to pay, or going out to dinners and luncheons, all of which she
had given up for the time. But it did not look very like it so far--I
mean not very like her 'having more time' than at the big house, for
there were always things turning up for her to do, and then she wrote
enormously long letters to papa every week. And there were things about
the place, the whole property, which she had to be consulted about now
he was away.
And for my part I was not at all looking forward to my new post of
governess!
'It is such a pity,' I thought, 'that we can't have Taisy. She wouldn't
have minded teaching the children a bit, and she is so clever. Lots of
my own lessons I could have done with her too. And I know the little
ones won't obey me; Denzil would, but not Esme, and she will set him
off.'
I suppose my face was looking rather cloudy, for mamma went on again.
'I daresay we shall all feel a little depressed for a time, for we have
had a good deal of really tiring work as well as excitement. And the
worst of over-excitement, at least for young, strong people, is, that
when it is over, everything seems flat, and we find ourselves wishing
something else would happen.'
'Yes,' I said; 'that's just what I feel. You do understand so well,
mamma.'
'I have a mild piece of excitement in store for you to-day or
to-morrow,' mamma went on again. 'I think it is quite time that I called
on our tenants. They must be fairly settled by now.'
'I don't see that there was any settling for them to do,' I said. 'You
left everything so beautifully neat and nice.'
Somehow I felt a little cross at the poor things!
'They have to unpack what they brought with them,' said Geordie; 'and
I'm sure----' he stopped short.
I knew why he stopped. He thought that what he was going to say might
vex me, for, as I think--or hope I have owned--I have a quick temper.
But Dods was not famous for 'tact'; that habit of his of stopping short
all of a sudden often made me crosser than almost anything he could
_say_.
'It's very rude not to finish your sentence,' I said sharply. 'What are
you so sure about?'
'Only that you made fuss enough about our own unpacking,' he replied,
'quite extra from the getting the Hut in order and all that.'
'You are very unfair, and unkind,' I said, feeling as if I should like
to cry, for _I_ thought I had been very patient and good-tempered.
'Mamma, don't you think he needn't have said that?'
'He did not want to say it, to give him his due,' said mamma, smiling a
little; 'and to give Ida her due,' she went on, turning to Geordie, 'I
don't see, my boy, that you needed to _think_ it.'
'Well,' said Dods, and I felt my vexedness begin to go away, 'after all,
I don't know that I did. I suppose we've all been rather fussy, though
it wasn't in a bad sort of way.'
'No, indeed,' said mamma; 'it was in a very good sort of way. You have
all been most helpful; I wish you could have seen my last letter to papa
about you.'
After that it would have been impossible to go on being vexed with any
one, wouldn't it? I never knew any one like mamma for making horrid
feelings go and nice ones come, and yet she is always quite _true_.
'Then, do you mean that you want me to go with you when you call on the
Trevors, mamma?' I asked.
'Yes, I do, rather particularly,' she replied, so of course I said I
would be ready whatever time she fixed, though I didn't very much want
to go. I was just at the age--I don't think I have quite grown past it
even now--when girls hate paying calls, and I could not bear the idea of
being received as visitors in our very own house. This was extremely
silly of course, as it was such a lucky thing for us to have let it to
good, careful people like the Trevors, but I don't think it was an
unnatural feeling. And afterwards, poor mamma owned to me that it was
something of the same kind that had made her wish to take me with her.
It would make her feel less 'lonely,' she thought. Wasn't it sweet of
her to think that?
So that afternoon, or the next, I forget which, we found ourselves
walking slowly up through the woods to the big house. I felt rather as
if it must be Sunday, for it was not often, except on Sundays, that I
was in the woods in very neat 'get up,'--proper gloves instead of rough
garden ones, and best boots, and hat, and everything like for going to
church, or for going a drive with mamma in the victoria.
We did not expect--at least I did not--to find our new acquaintances
very interesting. There was nobody young among them, and hearing that
they had come to Eastercove principally for health's sake did not sound
very lively.
But, after all, something interesting _did_ come of the visit, as I will
tell you.
We were ushered into the drawing-room--'the ladies were at home,' he
said--by an oldish man-servant, with a nice face.
Into our own drawing-room--how funny it seemed! And already it did not
seem quite our own, not the same. There were little changes in the
places of the furniture, and there were unfamiliar odds and ends about,
which made it feel strange. I was rather glad that there was no one in
the room to receive us, and I squeezed mamma's hand tight, and I am sure
she understood, and we both had time to get our breath, as it were,
before any one appeared.
When some one did come, nevertheless, we were taken a little by
surprise, for she--it was Miss Trevor--entered by the window, and I had
been looking towards the door. There are long, low-down windows in the
drawing-room, and at one side a terracey sort of walk, which is very
pleasant for sitting out on, in summer especially, as it is well shaded.
Immediately I saw her I felt she was nice. She seemed older than mamma,
though perhaps she was not so really. Her face was very quiet--that is
the best word for it, and though I was so young then and knew so little
of life, I felt that it was a face that had _grown_ quiet through
goodness. Even now I do not know much of Miss Trevor's history, but
mamma has been told enough of it to make her think very highly of her.
There was not the least bit of hardness, scarcely even of sadness in her
expression, but just a look--a look that made one feel that she had come
through sorrow, and could never care _very_ much about anything for
herself again--anything _here_, I mean.
'I am so sorry,' she said at once, in a nice, hearty way, 'to have kept
you waiting. It is such a lovely afternoon that mother and I have
settled ourselves outside!'
'Then please don't unsettle yourselves,' said mamma, and I saw a gleam
of pleasure creep into Miss Trevor's gray eyes at mamma's pretty voice
and manner. 'May we not join Mrs. Trevor on the terrace, for I suppose
it is there you are sitting?'
'Yes,' was the reply. 'It is so sheltered, and of course it is still
early days for venturing anything of the kind. But mother is quite
strong except for rheumatism, and really who _could_ have rheumatism in
this dry, fragrant air? We are so delighted with everything about your
beautiful home, Mrs. Lanark,' she went on. (It has _just_ struck me that
till now I have never said that 'Lanark' is our family name! Really, I
am not fit to try to write a story.) 'And you have done so much to make
it perfect for us.'
[Illustration: WE WERE OUT ON THE TERRACE, AND MRS. TREVOR COMING TO
MEET US.]
Mamma and I felt repaid for our trouble by this, but before there was
time to reply, we were out on the terrace, and Mrs. Trevor coming to
meet us. It was not such an easy business for her to do so, as you might
think. She had three dogs--darlings, I must own, and not barking,
snapping darlings--dancing round her, and she was all twisted about with
wool, red and green and white and all colours, unwound from the balls
from her knitting. You never saw anything so funny, especially as the
doggies, though very good-natured, were very lively and affectionate,
and very spoilt, evidently accustomed to think the wools and the
knitting and every bit of dear Mrs. Trevor herself only existed for
their benefit. How she managed to keep the wool clean, and to knit the
pretty fluffy things she did, I never found out. I really think there
was some magic about it, for I _never_ saw her without the strands of it
flying loose, _and_ the dogs dancing up and down to catch it!
She was laughing--such a nice laugh.
'Really,' she said, 'you will think me a slave to my pugs, Mrs. Lanark,
and I am afraid it is true. Zenia, dear, please untwist me.'
Miss Trevor was evidently pretty well used to doing so, but she laughed
too; and mamma and I started forward to help, so between us we managed
to get the wool wound up pretty quickly, the doggies standing by more
quietly than usual. They were more in awe of Miss Trevor, it was plain
to see, than of their actual mistress.