QUEENIE’S HOME.
“I DO hate term-time!” cried Queenie, stamping her little foot and
looking altogether fierce and out of sorts. “I hate all the boys to be
away! Why do boys have to go to school? I’m sure they don’t learn so
very much; I believe I know more than most of them. Boys ought either to
stay at home or else take their sisters to school with them.”
And Queenie, who was standing in the middle of her big nursery
surrounded by piles of books and toys, looked triumphantly round her, as
if she had uttered a very fine sentiment indeed. Her nurse, who was
quietly working by the window, smiled a little at this outbreak.
“Perhaps young gentlemen might not care about taking their sisters with
them,” she suggested, mildly; but Queenie tossed her head with a
supercilious air.
“_My_ brothers always like to have _me_ with them,” she answered. “It’s
perfectly horrid when they all go away. Nothing is any fun without
boys.”
“You won’t think so long, Miss Queenie. It’s only just at first that it
seems dull-like.”
Queenie stamped her foot. I am afraid she often did so, being a very
excitable young lady, and without much control over herself.
“It isn’t!” she cried, angrily; “it’s all the time, every bit of it—a
whole horrid three months nearly! I hate people who try and pretend
things aren’t what they are. It’s very stupid and very unkind. You know
I’m always miserable when the boys are away, and it’s not a bit of good
pretending I’m not!”
Queenie turned defiantly upon her nurse as she made this challenge; but
the wise woman, knowing well the disposition of her little mistress,
held her peace.
Queenie sat down suddenly in the middle of her toys and stared about her
disconsolately.
“It is horrid to live in a place where there isn’t a single boy.”
“There is a boy now at the Manor House,” remarked the nurse, threading
her needle afresh.
Queenie looked up, all interest and vivacity.
“A boy at the Manor House!” she repeated. “Who is he? I didn’t know the
Squire had any boys.”
“Neither he has, Miss Queenie. Poor man, he lost them all. The little
boy he has with him now is the one, you know, who drifted ashore after
the last storm, who doesn’t know who he is nor where he came from, poor
little fellow.”
“Why doesn’t he?”
“He can’t remember; he’s forgotten it all. His head was hurt somehow,
and when he got better he’d forgotten everything he knew about himself.”
“How funny!” cried Queenie. “I wonder what it feels like to forget
everything like that.”
The nurse shook her head, and Queenie went on with her own train of
thought.
“I think it would be rather nice to forget everything and begin again
quite fresh. It would be so funny. I should like to forget all my
lessons, and to go on forgetting them, so that by and by people would
say it was no good teaching me any more, and I should do just as I liked
all day.”
“You would soon be very glad to go back to your lessons again, Miss
Queenie,” answered the nurse, quietly. “There is nothing in the world so
dull as having no regular employment.”
This wise remark did not provoke any ridicule from Queenie at this
moment, as it would usually have done. She had other things to think of
now.
“Why has the little boy gone to the Manor House?” she asked.
“I suppose the Squire asked him there. You see he has no friends to take
care of him—at least he cannot find them yet. The Squire is a very kind
man.”
“Mamma doesn’t like him,” remarked Queenie. “She tells people he is very
unsociable, and does not treat her with proper respect. I think he looks
a nice old man. I met him once when I was out on my pony, and had run
away from William and lost him. He picked up my whip for me because I’d
dropped it, and when I thanked him, he smiled and looked quite kind,
though in church he is always so grave and solemn. But I can’t think why
he should take a little fisherman’s boy to live in his house.”
The nurse smiled a little.
“Who told you he was a fisherman’s boy, Miss Queenie?”
Queenie tossed her little curly head with the air of one who half
resents such a question.
“Why, of course he is! everybody knows that. He lived ever so many days
in that dirty little hut with the Wickhams. I saw him one day on the
sands, playing with David. Only quite a common boy could possibly think
of doing _that_!”
The nurse smiled again.
“Well, Miss Queenie, however that may be, there are other opinions about
the little boy. Anyway, he is living at the Manor House now, and Mrs.
Pritchard does not think it beneath her to wait upon him,—fisherman’s
boy or no.”
Queenie listened with interest to this account of the little stranger;
but she would not admit that she could possibly be mistaken in her
estimate of him.
“I’ve seen him,” she said; “he was dressed in horrid old clothes. I’m
quite sure _he_ can’t be a gentleman’s son. It’s quite ridiculous!”
“And I suppose, Miss Queenie, if you happened to get lost some day, and
were found by poor people, and dressed in poor clothes, you would not be
a gentleman’s little daughter any longer?”
Queenie flushed indignantly, and drew up her little head.
“I am Sir Walter Arbuthnot’s only daughter,” she said, in her most
stately way. “Nothing that could happen could make any difference to
_that_.”
Nurse smiled again.
“Oh, I thought it was all a matter of clothes.”
Queenie made no reply. She began to see that there was something more
than that to be taken into consideration; but she was not going to make
any rash admissions to her nurse, whose ideas upon some subjects did not
at all commend themselves to the little lady.
But she thought a good deal about the little boy who had come to the
Manor House, and wove several romances about him. She wondered whether
she would ever make his acquaintance, what he would be like if she did,
and whether he would prove worthy of the notice she half resolved she
would take of him should the opportunity present itself.
Queenie, as will be seen from what has gone before, was a little lady
with a great idea of her own importance. It was not altogether her own
fault that she had this exalted opinion of herself. She was an only
daughter, and had been spoiled ever since she was born. The youngest of
the family and the only girl, it was no wonder she had been made much
of, and her beauty, her self-will, and her quickness all helped to
increase the dangers and difficulties of the position. Her father gave
way to her whims in everything, whenever she appealed to him, for he was
much entertained by her vivacity and delighted in her fearlessness and
high spirit. He secretly countenanced those acts of insubordination and
defiance of authority that shocked Lady Arbuthnot’s sense of propriety,
and cared nothing at all about her “tomboy tricks” so long as she was
always ready to amuse him by her sharp sayings when she came in to
dessert or was sent for into the drawing-room. The mother, on the other
hand, disliked all this tendency to frolic and careless deportment, and
sedulously cultivated what she termed the graceful side of her little
daughter’s character. In plain words, she tried hard to instill a great
deal of vanity and foolish pride into Queenie’s youthful mind, and had
it not been for the child’s healthy love for play and natural freedom
from petty follies of this kind, she would in all probability have
become before this time a little woman of fashion instead of a happy,
careless child.
As it was, in spite of many drawbacks and many dangers, the child was a
child still,—proud, self-willed, and passionate, it is true, yet on the
whole generous, well-disposed and merry, satisfied with herself and with
most things about her. She was not spoiled yet, whatever she might be
later, and she undoubtedly owed much to the kindly and judicious
treatment of her nurse.
Queenie thought a good deal more of her nurse’s opinion than she was at
all aware of; and as nurse had said that the little boy who had been
received at the Manor House was a gentleman’s son—or seemed so—the small
lady at the Court began to think a good deal about him, and to wonder if
she should ever be allowed to make his acquaintance.
Queenie’s parents had not lived for more than a year at the Court, and
they hardly knew the Squire at all. He did not pay calls in a general
way, and although he had broken through his habitual seclusion to pay
his respects to Lady Arbuthnot on her first arrival there, he had not
repeated the visit, and she had taken offence at what she considered a
lack of proper respect. They were very near neighbors, and yet almost
strangers. Sir Walter would say in his careless fashion that the old
Squire was a good fellow enough, only growing very rusty with being so
shut up in his dismal house all alone; but no intercourse existed
between the neighbors, and Lady Arbuthnot took somewhat an exaggerated
view of the old man’s unsociable disposition. A vain woman in a small
neighborhood, with little to occupy her thoughts, is likely to get into
a silly way of making much out of little, and her annoyance with the
Squire was out of all proportion to the supposed affront.
Queenie knew a great deal more of her mother’s opinions than was at all
advisable; and so she felt considerable doubt as to whether any
friendship would be permitted between her and the little strange boy who
had drifted ashore by the storm. Still she was not a child who was
easily daunted by opposition, and she was quite convinced in her own
mind that, if she liked the looks of the new-comer, she would soon find
a way of making his acquaintance.
When Sunday came round, Queenie was conscious of a little sense of
excitement as she allowed herself to be dressed for church. She knew
that the Squire was never absent from the great square pew just opposite
their own, and that, if the little boy were there with him, she could
not fail to have an excellent view of him.
Lady Arbuthnot was not very well that day, so that Queenie would have
the satisfaction of going alone with her father, which always pleased
her very much, for she could chatter to him the whole time during the
double walk, sit in her mother’s corner at church and use her beautiful
velvet-bound books. The little girl always stood upon the high footstool
during such parts of the service as it was possible, and indulged secret
hopes that strangers in the church would take her to be Lady Arbuthnot.
To-day she had herself dressed in excellent time, and coaxed her father
into his light overcoat quite five minutes before he was disposed to
start, in order to be sure to be in time to see the Squire’s entrance.
Sir Walter was very good-tempered and very fond of his little daughter.
Queenie looked particularly bright and pretty to-day, her blue eyes
beaming with excitement and pleasure, her golden curls straying out from
beneath the brim of her little velvet cap, and her pretty spring dress,
warm yet light, all fresh from the hands of careful nurse. She was a
dainty little maiden as regarded her clothes, despite her active
“tomboy” nature, and Sir Walter was pleased to take her hand in his and
listen to her merry chatter as they walked through the copse and over
the fields together.
She did not speak of the thought uppermost in her head. Some instinct of
caution sealed her lips until her own mind should be made up on the
subject. She must see the little boy herself before she could possibly
tell whether she wished to take any step towards forming his
acquaintance. She was not at all sure, in spite of nurse’s vague hints,
that he would prove to be worthy of the honor she proposed to extend to
him in bestowing upon him her friendship.
The Squire had not yet arrived when the Arbuthnots took their places. So
far so good. Queenie settled herself with dignity in her seat, and
prepared to wait for him.
She had not to wait long; the Squire was always in excellent time, and
very soon she saw the familiar white head passing in through the open
door.
Was he alone? No, surely not! In another moment all doubt was at an end.
He had entered, leading by the hand a little boy in a suit of black
velvet, and in another moment or two the children were sitting quietly
in their places immediately facing one another.
Queenie’s gaze immediately fastened upon the little boy’s face, and
fixed itself there with the unconscious interest and frankness only
possible in childhood.
“How pretty he is!” was her first thought; her second “But, how sad!”
She had certainly never seen any one quite like him before. She could
not tell what it was made him so different from other boys she had
known; but she was quite aware that there was a difference.
No boy she had ever seen before had ever looked dreamy and sorrowful and
bewildered, as this little boy did almost all through the service. The
wistful sadness in his great dark eyes stirred Queenie’s sympathy as
much as it quickened her imagination.
All her doubts as to the little boy’s “fitness” to be her friend
vanished, she knew not how. All that seemed of any importance now was
that he seemed lonely and unhappy, and that _of course_ she must make
friends with him and try to comfort him. She caught herself wondering
again and again what he could be thinking of, as he sat so still in his
corner, his eyes sometimes fixed upon the clergyman, sometimes wandering
dreamily towards one or another of the stained glass windows. Did it all
seem very strange to him? or did he remember what a church was like and
feel at home there? His deportment was quite correct, but that might be
imitation. How much did he remember, and how much was forgotten? It was
a question that affected her imagination keenly and quite occupied all
her thoughts.
She was glad that the little boy was younger than herself, though she
could hardly have said why. He did not look a bit more than seven or
eight, whilst she was nearly ten, and he did not look at all strong. She
would be able to patronize and protect him, which was of all things what
she loved best to do.
Fortune favored Queenie that day, for, as the congregation left the
church, Sir Walter said to his little daughter,—
“Don’t be in a hurry; I want to speak to the Squire.”
Queenie was delighted, and eagerly waited by the little gate till the
Squire should appear. He was a little time in coming, as several of the
poor people had something they wished to say to him.
But he came at length, the child close at his side, at whom Sir Walter
cast one curious glance, and then drew the Squire a little on one side
in order to talk at his ease.
The two children were thus left confronting each other. Queenie of
course spoke first.
“What is your name, little boy?” she asked, graciously.
“They call me Bertie here,” he answered, gently, lifting his cap when
the little strange lady spoke to him in a way that raised him many steps
higher in Queenie’s opinion.
“Well, they call me Queenie,” responded she, laughing, “though it isn’t
my name, so we’re something like one another, you see. How old are you?”
He shook his head.
“I don’t know. Mrs. Pritchard and the tailor said I must be about seven
or eight.”
“I thought so!” cried Queenie, quickly; “I always guess people’s ages
nearly right. I shall be ten pretty soon. We live in the nearest house
to you—next door, we should say in London; but people don’t talk like
that here.”
Bertie looked up with a little start.
“Next door,” he said, quickly, and then stopped short.
“What about next door?” asked Queenie.
“I don’t know,” he answered, slowly. “I thought I did; but I didn’t.”
“I want us to be friends,” said Queenie; “would you like to be?”
“If grandpapa likes,” answered Bertie, without the animation Queenie
looked for.
Yet he spoke so gently that she could not be offended, and the wistful
look in his eyes touched her, she could not tell why.
“Why do you call him grandpapa?” she asked, with interest. “Do you mean
the Squire?”
“Yes,” answered Bertie. “He lets me call him that. It seems more
natural, somehow.”
Queenie looked at him curiously.
“You must feel very funny, don’t you? I should worry all day to remember
things.”
Bertie’s eyes were troubled and sad.
“That does no good, it only makes my head ache; but I like being in
church.”
Queenie was aware that her father was shaking hands with the Squire. A
sudden impulse came over her to speak whilst she had the chance.
“I want us to be friends,” she said again. “Do you know the big oak tree
down by the sunk fence at the end of the Squire’s park, near the lodge?”
Bertie thought a little.
“I think I do.”
“If you’ll come out there to-morrow afternoon, I’ll come too. One of us
can climb over, and we’ll play together. Don’t forget, and do come.”
Bertie had no time to reply. A quick smile passed between the children
as they parted to go their several ways.
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