'THE KIND SEA, TOO, AUNTIE DEAR'
We _did_ get everything unpacked that night, but only in a
rough-and-ready way. We should have liked to go on till midnight or
later even, working by moonlight, for it was full moon and very clear
weather just then, but this mamma would not hear of.
And Hoskins in her sensible way pointed out how much more nicely and
neatly we could finish it all by daylight with the straw and packing
cloths all tidied away, which she would 'see to' first thing in the
morning.
She and mamma had already arranged for Taisy to sleep in my room that
night, by Esme's sleeping with mamma, and by taking out the end of
Esme's cot, to make it longer--long enough after a fashion, for _me_.
How we laughed, Taisy and I, though any other girl would have been
tired after all she had done, and the tiresomely slow drive from
Wetherford! Mamma was obliged to knock on the--wall, I was going to
say--but of course it was not a wall, only a wooden partition, to tell
us to be quiet. I never knew any one with such spirits as Taisy--not
only high spirits, but _nice_ ones, for she was never boisterous, and
she knew in a moment if you were not inclined for laughing or joking,
though her fun was always there, ready to bubble up again at the right
moment. She was full of sympathy too, in spite of her cheerfulness; no
one could possibly have called her heartless.
Looking back, I can see what a _very_ good thing it was for us all that
she came, even for mamma. We were in danger just then of being too much
taken up with our own little life--the life of the Hut--which is one
kind of selfishness.
And dear mamma in her _un_selfishness might have got too silent about
all she was feeling; she was so afraid of making us young ones
melancholy. But I have seen her sitting or standing, when she thought we
did not notice, gazing at the sea--gazing, gazing, as if she could
scarcely bear it and yet must look at it. The cruel sea, which had taken
dear papa so far away! On fine, sunny days I almost think somehow it
seemed worse. I know that feeling about the sea myself, as if it _were_
cruel really, below its loveliness and brilliance. And I am sure she
said something of this to Taisy, the very day after Taisy came, for I
heard _her_ say, though her eyes were full of tears--
'The _kind_ sea, too, auntie dear, which will bring him back again.'
And as for us children, it was just delightful past words to have
Theresa. We had been very happy at the Hut already, very busy and
interested, but the _fun_ of the life there came with Taisy. She was
full of it, though the things we found so amusing are too trifling, even
if they would not seem really silly, to write down.
The arranging of her 'house,' as she would call it, was the nicest part
of all the arranging we had had to do. We pulled it close up to one side
of one of our doors--the 'parish room' doors you understand, where there
were no windows, so that the waggon was, so to say, protected by one of
the iron walls--I don't know what else to call it, and which also gave
the advantage of a tap in the night arousing us at once, _in case_
Taisy felt frightened, which she never did. But the tapping was very
convenient all the same, as she could awaken me in the mornings when
they got warm enough for very early bathing, without 'disturbing the
whole house,' as Hoskins said. And I could tap to her, last thing at
night, to wish her good-night.
You never saw a cosier place than we made of it; that first day after it
was all arranged, we _couldn't_ leave off admiring it.
There was Taisy's bed along one side, rather a narrow one of course,
though not worse than a berth at sea, and looking so bright with the
lovely scarlet blankets Lady Emmeline had given her. And in one corner a
little frame which held a ewer and basin, and in the other some hooks
for hanging things with a red curtain that drew round, and short red
curtains to the windows, and a _tiny_ chest of drawers; it was really
one end of an old writing-table, or _secretaire_, to hold gloves and
pocket-handkerchiefs and belts and small things like that. Then under
the bed there was a long low trunk, what is called a cabin portmanteau,
I believe, which held Taisy's best dresses, of which she had certainly
not brought many, and hooks higher up than the hanging ones, for her
hats. You wouldn't believe, unless you have ever been a long voyage--I
_have_, since those days--all that was got into the old omnibus, by
planning and ingenuity.
Taisy was as proud of it as if she had made or built, I suppose one
should say, the whole carriage; indeed, I think we all were, once we had
got everything perfectly arranged. Mamma carried off some of her _most_
crushable things, as she said she had really some spare room in her own
cupboards or wardrobes; and I took her best hat, as it had lovely white
feathers, which it would have been a thousand pities to spoil, and which
there was plenty of space for in the big box where Esme's and mine were.
And then Taisy declared she felt her house quite spacious.
Lady Emmeline had sent several things for us, some especially for mamma
herself, which I was particularly glad of, as dear mamma, never thinking
of herself and anxious to leave the big house as pretty as usual, had
left behind some little things that I am sure she missed. And old Aunt
Emmeline and Taisy seemed to have guessed by magic what these were.
'How nice!' I exclaimed, when Taisy had got them unpacked. 'This screen
is just like the one you have in the boudoir at home, and cushions--I
_know_ you will be glad of some cushions, mamma, though you wouldn't
bring any with you.'
'And a _couvre-pied_,' added Taisy; 'Granny was sure you hadn't got
enough "wraps." Nothing will persuade her that it is not always as cold
as winter down here.'
'It is most kind of her,' said mamma; 'and I really am very, very
pleased to have these things. And--did you know, Ida?--Aunt Emmeline has
also sent us two hampers full of all manner of good things to
eat--chickens and a turkey, and a ham and pickled tongues, and I don't
know all what.'
'Yes,' said Taisy; 'nothing will persuade her either that you are
not----' She stopped suddenly and got rather red.
'I know,' said mamma, laughing, 'that we are not in danger of starvation
as well as of cold. You need not mind, Taisy dear--as if _anything_
could offend us that you said or that Aunt Emmeline thought. And of
course it is true that we are anxious to spend as little as we can,
while things are so uncertain.'
'And then we can't cure hams or pickle tongues like at home,' I added.
So all the kind old lady's gifts were very welcome. I think Hoskins was
more pleased with the eatables than with anything.
Things had been nice before, but after Taisy came, we really did enjoy
ourselves. She was always planning something amusing or interesting, and
mamma declared she had never heard me or Geordie laugh so much in her
life. It was very good for Geordie to be 'routed out' a little, as Taisy
said. He was inclined to be too serious and anxious, and to overwork, at
this time, because of the scholarship, and as I had put it into his
head, I was doubly glad of being helped to keep him bright and merry,
as I know he worked all the better for it. He was _really_
anxious-minded--not like Denzil, who never laughed and was as solemn as
an owl, not because _he_ was anxious, but just because he was too fat
and comfortable to worry--poor old Den!--he really _is_ so
good-tempered, I don't like laughing at him.
It was very nice too that just about this time came the first really
long letter from papa; up to now he had written scarcely more than
scraps. And this letter was decidedly more cheerful and hopeful.
He had begun to go into things thoroughly, he said, and had got very
good friends to help him, and he was beginning to think that, at worst,
it would not turn out _too_ awfully bad. And for this mamma felt very
grateful, though she had so bravely prepared for whatever might be to
come.
So for a few weeks we went on very contentedly, more than that,
indeed--very brightly too. It was, for me, too delightful not to have
much governessing to do, for Taisy at once took the most of this on
herself. And I assure you, she _did_ keep Miss Esme in order.
In return for this she joined me in some of my reading with mamma, and
she always has said that she learnt more in this way about some lessons
than she had ever done before. Mamma is very clever.
We went on, as I said, pretty steadily like this for some weeks till
another rather big thing happened--almost as big as the 'descent of the
balloon,' which we always called Theresa's arrival.
But before telling about this new event, I must relate a curious thing
that happened one day.
It was one afternoon--just after tea--we were still sitting out of doors
where we had had tea--mamma in her 'boudoir,' for the days were getting
quite long, and we were specially glad to be in the open air as much as
possible, for we had had a good deal of rain for nearly a week--mamma
was reading, and I think I was too--when Hoskins came out of the house
looking rather 'funny'--queer, I mean, as if not quite sure if she were
vexed or not.
'If you please, ma'am,' she said, 'there's a gypsy at the back door, and
I can't get her to go till she's seen you.'
'A gypsy,' mamma exclaimed in great surprise; 'how has she managed to
get inside the grounds? And I did not know there were any in the
neighbourhood just now. It is so seldom they come this way too. Taisy,'
she went on, looking round, 'you might speak to her for me and ask what
she wants.'
But Taisy was not there.
'Miss Theresa has gone into the woods, I think,' said Hoskins; 'I heard
her calling to Miss Esme just after tea-time.'
Mamma and I had not noticed the others going; our books must have been
interesting, and time passes quickly in such a case.
'How did the gypsy get through the lodge gates?' mamma repeated.
'That's what I asked her first thing,' Hoskins answered; 'but she did
not answer very distinctly. She says she has come a good bit out of her
way to see you--there are not any camping about near here. She has a
boy with her--perhaps she wants something for him--quite a little
fellow. She's a pleasant, civil-spoken woman--indeed, gypsies generally
are if they want to get something out of you.'
'Like most people, I am afraid,' said mamma, smiling as she reluctantly
prepared to move. 'Perhaps I had better speak to her; it would not do to
have her lurking about all night. They are queer people--I should not
like to rouse any ill-feeling in a gypsy.'
'Mayn't I come with you, mamma?' I said. 'I have never spoken to a real
gypsy.'
Mamma looked at me rather doubtfully.
'Oh yes,' she said; 'but I don't want her to tell your fortune or
anything of that kind, Ida, so do not encourage her if she begins about
it.'
We made our way through the Hut, followed by Hoskins, to the door at the
back, where, as she had said, the strange visitor was standing--Margery,
who was washing up (I never saw Margery _not_ washing up, by the bye),
was also keeping an eye on the woman, though I could see by the movement
of her shoulders that she was giggling.
Mamma went forward.
'What do you want to see me for?' she said gently but rather coldly.
The woman lifted her face--she was not quite as tall as mamma, and
looked at her closely, but not rudely. She was older than I had somehow
expected. Her skin was very brown, her hair jet-black, her eyes not
_quite_ as dark as one imagines a gypsy's must be; I thought to myself
that perhaps the very tanned complexion made them seem lighter. She was
wrinkled and weather-beaten, but not by any means ugly, though not
beautiful, except her teeth, which were extremely white and even.
'Yes, my lady,' she said, 'I did want to see you. I have come far to do
so.'
Her accent was peculiar, her voice low, and she talked slowly, almost as
if using a foreign language.
'How did you get through the gates?' mamma asked.
The answer was a shake of the head.
'I have not passed through them--not to-day,' she said. 'There are
ways--when one is in earnest.'
'I hope you have not broken through the hedges, or over the walls,' said
mamma, rather uneasily.
Another shake of the head.
'No, no--have no fear; I have done no harm,' was the reply, and somehow
mamma seemed as if she did not like to say any more about it.
'But what do you want to see me for?' she repeated. 'Has it anything to
do with the boy? Is he your son, or your grandson?' and she glanced at
the little fellow beside the gypsy. A very little fellow he was--dark
too, very dark-skinned and grave and rather frightened-looking. He stood
there with his eyes cast down, a shock of black hair tumbling over his
forehead, so that it was difficult to distinguish the upper part of his
face.
Mamma looked at him curiously--afterwards she told me she felt sorry for
him, and wondered if the woman was good to him. She--the woman--glanced
at him and said something rather sharply in a queer-sounding language,
on which the little fellow gave a sort of tug to his cap, though without
actually taking it off--meant, of course, for politeness. But he never
spoke the whole time they were there.
'No, my lady,' the woman replied, turning again to mamma,--'no, I have
no favour to ask for the child. He is not my son--nor my grandson,' and
here she smiled, showing her white teeth; 'I am not quite old enough for
that, though I may look it. I wanted to see you for a reason of my
own--to do you no harm, you may be sure. And one day you will know the
reason. But now,' and she held out her hand, 'you will let me tell your
lines? Not much, nor far--I would not ask it. Just a little, and mostly
of the past.'
Mamma shook her head.
'Then the young lady's?' said the gypsy, looking at me. Mamma shook her
head still more decidedly.
'No, no,' she said; 'I would rather you told mine than hers. Such things
make young people fanciful.'
'Then your own, my lady,' said the woman, and again she held out her
hand persuasively,--'just a little.'
I drew nearer.
'Do, mamma,' I whispered; 'she may be offended if you don't.'
Mamma laughed, and held out her right hand.
'Cross it with silver,' said the woman, simply but gravely, as if she
were issuing a command. I had my purse in my pocket, and drew it out.
'Give her a shilling,' said mamma. I did so.
Then the gypsy bent over mamma's hand, studying it closely and murmuring
to herself.
'The other too,' she then said, without looking up.
Mamma gave it.
'Yes,' said the gypsy, almost as if speaking to herself,--'yes--you have
come through some dangers--water was the worst, but that was long ago.
Now water has robbed you of your dearest, but only for a time. It will
restore what it has carried away. And you will be happy. You have a
brave heart. Strange things have happened of late to you. You have with
you an unexpected visitor. And you are going to have another unexpected
visit--a shorter one. Show kindness to your guest; it is always well to
do so, though you may not care to receive a stranger. And----'
'No,' said mamma,--'no, my good woman. I really don't want to hear any
more. It is getting late, and you say you have come far and this little
fellow will be tired. You had better go,'--she drew away her hand as she
spoke, though quite gently.
'Very well, my lady,' said the woman, without persisting further; 'and I
thank you for your courtesy.'
'Shall I send some one to see you through the lodge gates?' said mamma;
but the woman shook her head.
'There is no need,' she said. 'I shall not pass that way,' and she
walked off quietly.
Hoskins came forward and stood beside us.
'I declare,' she said, 'she is going by the shore! What a round to get
to the high road!'
'Perhaps she is going to meet a boat,' I said. For there were little
coves farther on, from where boats were easily launched, and whence an
hour or so's rowing would bring them to a small fishing village called
Brigsea.
'Very likely,' said mamma; 'that is a good idea and explains the
mystery. But she was a queer woman all the same,' and mamma seemed a
tiny bit upset.
'She only told you good things, though,' I said. 'I do wonder how she
knew about your escape from a great danger by water, long ago.'
'Yes,' said mamma. 'It is very strange how they know things.'
'And about our unexpected visitor,' I went on; 'that meant Taisy, of
course. But I wonder who the new one coming can be?'
'Oh, nobody, I daresay,' said mamma. 'Visitors and letters coming are
one of their stock prophecies. Still she did not strike me as quite a
commonplace gypsy. I wish Taisy had been here to see her too. Where can
they all be, I wonder?'
We were not kept uncertain very long. We heard a whoop, followed by the
appearance of the two boys, who told us that Taisy and Esme were coming
directly.
'We've all been in the wood,' said Geordie.
'I wish you had been here,' I said. 'There's been a gypsy at the back
door,' and I went on to tell him of our strange visitor and what she had
said.
Geordie whistled.
'I should have liked to talk to her,' he remarked. 'Did she say how she
got into the grounds?'
I shook my head.
'No,' I replied. 'She was very mysterious about it, but she went away in
the direction of the shore, so she prob----'
I was interrupted by another whoop, and in a moment or two up came Taisy
and Esme, looking very hot and untidy, but very eager to hear all
details of our rather uncanny visitor, as soon as the word 'gypsy' had
caught their ears.
And we talked so much about her that at last mamma said we had really
better change the subject, or she would begin to wish she had not agreed
to see the woman.
'You will all be dreaming about her and fancying she knew much more than
she did,' mamma added; and though she smiled and did not seem at all
vexed, I somehow felt that she rather wished the gypsy had not come. One
little thing which she said helped to explain this.
'I cannot get the small boy out of my mind,' it was. 'She spoke sharply
to him, and he seemed frightened. I do hope she is not unkind to him.'
'Oh no,' I said; 'she had not an unkind face at all, though there was
something rather--_odd_--about it, besides her being a gypsy.'
Taisy laughed, and stroked mamma's arm.
'I should think it _most_ unlikely she is unkind to the child,' she
said, 'though he is not her son--or grandson! Dear auntie, you are too
tender-hearted.'
Just then I heard a sort of giggle from Esme, who, for a wonder, was
sitting quietly with a book in a corner. I felt vexed with her.
'Esme,' I whispered, 'it's very rude to laugh at anything Taisy says to
mamma.'