‘BROWNSES’ HOUSE’
About six o’clock in the evening Clif went back again from his
“sulking-place.” His heart was a tender one when the crust that
gathered there was pierced, and something brought back to him the
exceeding weariness of the voice that had called out of the window:
“Clif,—are you there, Clif?”
“I’ll go and rock that blessed kid for an hour,” was his shamefaced
thought as he went up the weed-sown path again.
The cottage was a weatherboard one, with the galvanized iron roof that
makes life a burden during the summer days. The doctor’s brass plate on
the door was dull and smirched, the step was dirty, the children’s toys
lay about the verandah—it was easy to see Mrs. Wise was no manager.
Clif went through the passage and out to the back verandah, where
late in the day most of the family congregated, that being the place
that caught the faint breeze of the evening. The mother was in
her rocking-chair, and baby was asleep in her arms. Ted, who was
three years younger than Clif, sat at her feet deep in _The Three
Midshipmen_. Alf, who was stout, and six, was eating a slice of
water-melon—he had bitten deeper and deeper into it till the broad
green rind encircled his merry little face from ear to ear. On the
ground just below the verandah there was a slight depression that,
after rain, sometimes held as much as half a foot of water, and made a
pool as big as a hand-basin. Here Richie was fishing, as usual, with a
bit of bread fastened to a hair-pin and tied to a string.
Clif tried to be a bit cheerful.
“Hullo,” he said as he passed, “any luck? Get any bites, Richie?”
“Ony free,” said Richie mournfully.
“Why don’t you put salt on the bread, old man?” Clif said; “you can’t
expect to catch fish without.”
The little boy got up eagerly and trotted off to the kitchen to beg the
necessary article. And Clif caught sight of a bit of his boat at the
edge of the water, with the sail in the mud. He looked away from it
quickly but with a queer feeling in his throat.
“Go and get your tea, Clif,” his mother said. “Lizzie left it at the
end of the dining-room table.”
Her voice was very cold.
“Don’t you want me to rock baby?” he said awkwardly.
“He is asleep.”
“I’ll tell the kids a story if you like.”
“They are playing quite happily.”
“Shall I help Lizzie get the baths?”
“No, thank you.”
_Human Buds_ said that silent displeasure was often the hardest
punishment a mother could inflict.
The boy sighed and went off into the dining-room.
[Illustration: “Why don’t you put salt on the bread, old man?”]
“Dry bread, I s’pose,” he muttered.
But there was a nicer tea than usual—bread-and-honey, plum-jam, a bit
of gingerbread, and a slice of melon.
He eyed it uncomfortably, then after a struggle went out again to the
verandah.
“I heard when you called,” he said, red in the face; “you’d better take
those things away.”
“What things?” said his mother as coldly as ever. “I know you heard me.”
“There’s some cake and melon on the table,” said Clif.
Alf went so red they both knew whose doing it was.
“I only thought we’d go halves,” he said apologetically.
His mother kissed him.
“If Clif’s conscience will let him eat it, he may,” she said.
Clif went in again with heavy step, took a slice of bread-and-honey,
and started out again for his den.
But there followed after him Alf with the rejected dainties.
“Go on,” he said, “she said you could; it’s awful nice, Clif.”
“I don’t want it,” said Clif.
“It’s got currants and peel in,” said the tempter.
Clif dare not look at it; cake was a great treat to him, and his mouth
was melting for it.
“I don’t want it,” he repeated.
Then Alf’s patience gave way; he had waited a very long time, but human
endurance would go no further. He said nothing, but Clif, just in
front, heard his teeth crunching on the crisp melon, and was able to
guess the exact moment the last crumb of cake disappeared.
“Was it that sugary sort of melon?” he could not help asking with
anxiety in his eyes.
“Y-yes,” admitted Alf unwillingly, and Clif sighed.
“I can spell platypus,” volunteered the younger lad, in haste to get
away from unpleasant subjects. Then he suddenly gave a hop of joy.
“Guess what,” he said; “I nearly forgot, and you don’t know, do you?”
“What?” said Clif.
“‘Brownses’ House’ is empty again,” said the little boy; “p’raps some
one nice will come.”
“Brownses’ House” was a rather pretty cottage with a garden, the back
fence of which adjoined their own. It possessed the distinction of
being one of the three—their own and the clergyman’s being the other
two—houses that formed the aristocracy of Sunnymeade. The rest of the
population consisted of miners, and tradespeople who had come to supply
their wants.
Clif’s brow lightened a little.
“Let’s go and look,” he said, and they went and stood for half-an-hour
gazing at the shut-up cottage.
It was the one place in Sunnymeade that had any “possibility” about it;
everything else in the dreary village being plain, common fact.
The miners and their families lived in the monotonous ugly cottages
dotted up and down the streets. Sometimes new ones came, sometimes old
ones went away. It was all one to the little Wises; the children of the
men were more than usually uncouth and rough, and Mrs. Wise would not
allow her boys to go among them.
The clergyman had been a fixture here for untold years; he had a
married daughter keeping house for him, and two grand-children, a
stolid boy of seven, and an equally stolid girl of nine.
But at “Brownses’ House” people came and went as often as once a
year, and there was always just the possibility that some one with a
companionable family might some day come. One time Clif’s spirits had
been raised to the highest pitch of excitement and happiness by the
sight of a boy of about thirteen looking over the dividing fence. He
had never had a suitable companion of his own age, and his heart almost
stood still with its shock of happiness. They made friends at once,
and for a month life was ideal to Clif; they rode their rough ponies
together, they got up a cricket club, they climbed trees, they swam and
read and talked together.
But the boy’s father had come to see if “Moondi-Moondi” would be a
suitable place in which to start a law practice, and in less than a
month he had shaken the dust of it off his feet, and “Brownses’” was
empty again.
There had been other waves of excitement connected with it; the Brownes
themselves, owners of the little place, had come up to try to spend
an economical summer in it. But the mosquitoes had driven them back
again in a week. Three or four other families had taken the cottage at
different times, but no one stayed permanently.
“Wonder how long it’ll be empty _this_ time,” Clif said, peering in the
windows and finding even the furniture had gone this time.
“’Bout a month I ’spect,” Alf said; “don’t you hope a boy like Alec
comes again?”
But it was destined to stand with dusty, blindless windows, and empty
echoing rooms, and tangled garden for just eight months—until the right
people wanted it.