Produced by Annie McGuire
The Boys and I
Mrs. Molesworth
Illustrated by Lewis Baumer
[Illustration: "Oh, young man, this house is to be sold, I hear!"--PAGE
32.]
The Boys and I
A Child's Story for
Children
by
Mrs. Molesworth
Illustrated
by Lewis Baumer
E. P. DUTTON AND COMPANY, NEW YORK
W. & R. CHAMBERS, LIMITED.
LONDON AND EDINBURGH.
CONTENTS.
CHAP. PAGE
I. OUR FIRST SORROW 7
II. REAL AND PLAY 23
III. THREE LITTLE TRAVELLERS 40
IV. THE AIR-GARDEN 62
V. A NEW TROUBLE 85
VI. WE TRY TO BE GOOD 106
VII. TOAST FOR TEA 127
VIII. WANTED A STAMP 149
IX. MISS GOLDY-HAIR 173
X. TOM'S SORE THROAT 195
XI. OUR TEA-PARTY 216
XII. THE WHITE DOVE 238
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
PAGE
"Oh, young man, this house is to be sold, I hear?" _Frontispiece_.
Miss Goldy-hair 39
"Dear me," said Mrs Partridge at once, "what weak eyes he has!" 57
"May we come near the fire, if you please?" 67
"London isn't a very nice place, is it?" 83
For his hair was very tuggy this morning 97
He was not a very amusing person 107
We made holes at the crusty side of the slices, and tied them
with string 135
"Has any one attended to you, my dear?" 169
We thanked him, and ran off 172
"Can't you trust me, Audrey?" 193
In walked Miss Goldy-hair herself! 209
Read to him over and over again all the stories I could find 215
Two muffins would be exquisite 227
"Wait for the first moonlight night and you will see," said
the dove, and then it flew off 243
Racey was really rather frightened of him, he looked so black
and queer 259
[Illustration: The Boys and I]
CHAPTER I.
OUR FIRST SORROW.
"O, it is trouble very bad,
Which causes us to weep;
All last night long we were so sad,
Not one of us could sleep."
Sometimes they called us all three just "the boys." But I don't think
that was fair. I may have been rather a _tom_boy, but I wasn't quite so
bad as to be called a "boy." I was nine then-- I mean I was nine at the
beginning of the time I am going to tell you about, and now I am
fourteen. Afterwards, I will tell you what put it into my head to write
it down. If I told you now you wouldn't understand--at least not without
my telling you things all out of their places--ends at the beginning,
and middles at the end; and mother says it's an awfully bad habit to do
things that way. It makes her quite vexed to see any one read the end of
a book before they have really got to it. There aren't many things that
make her really vexed, but that's one, and another is saying "awfully,"
and I've just said it, or at least written it. And I can't score it
through--I've promised not to score through anything, and just to leave
it as it came into my head to write it all down.
I was nine that year, and Tom was seven, and little Racey six. I
remember it quite well, for that year a lot of things happened. Tom and
I had the measles, and how it was Racey didn't have them too I don't
know, but he didn't. And just when we were getting better, the first
very big thing that we had ever known about, happened. Papa was ordered
to go to China! (I dare say it seems funny to you that we call him
"papa" and mother "mother." I can't tell you how it was, but we always
did it, and Tom and I used to like to hear Racey say "papa." He said it
in such a sweet way, more like the way little French children say it.)
Papa wasn't a soldier, or a sailor, as you might think. He was something
very clever, with letters after his name, and he had to go to China
partly because of that. Now that I am big I understand about it, but I
need not say exactly, because then you might find out who he was, and
that wouldn't be nice. It would be like as if I thought we were cleverer
or nicer than other people, and I don't think that--at least not in a
stuck-up way, and _of course_, not at all about myself. It isn't any
harm to think it a little about one's father or mother, I don't think,
but of course not about one's-self.
I shall never forget the day I heard about papa's going away. I keep
saying "papa's going away," because you see it had to do with him, but
it was even worse than his going, though that would have been bad
enough. It was just as we were getting better of the measles, and we had
been very happy all day, for mother had been telling us stories, and we
had had quite a "feast" tea--sponge-cakes and ladies' bread and butter;
and I had poured out the tea, for mother had put a little table on
purpose close to my bed, and Racey had been the footman to wait upon Tom
and give him all he wanted, as the table wasn't so near his bed as mine.
Tom had fallen asleep--poor Tom, he had had the measles worse than I. I
am so awfully strong, even though I'm only a girl, and boys always think
themselves stronger. And little Racey had fallen asleep too, lying at
the foot of my bed. He hadn't been kept away from us because of what Tom
called the "affection" of the measles, for the old doctor said he had
better get it too and have it over. But he didn't get it, and if ever I
have children I shall not do that way with them. I'll try and keep them
from having any illnesses at all, for I don't believe we're _forced_ to
have them. I think mother thought so too, but she didn't like to
contradict the doctor; because he was so old she thought he must know
best. And after all it didn't matter, as Racey didn't get the measles. I
really must try to go straight on-- I keep going back when other things
come into my head, so it isn't so easy to write things down nicely as I
thought it was.
Well, Tom was asleep--he looked so nice; he always does when he's
asleep, he has such a white forehead, and such rosy cheeks, and pretty
dark hair. I remember, because of what came after, how pretty he looked
that evening. And dear Racey--he looked so pretty too, though generally
he isn't counted so nice-looking as Tom, for his hair is a _little_ red,
and he is rather too pale for a boy. Well, the boys were both asleep and
I was _nearly_ asleep, when I heard some one come into the room. I
thought it was the nurse come to undress Racey and put him to bed
properly, and as I was in that nice, only half-awake way when it's a
great trouble to speak, I thought I'd pretend to be quite asleep, and so
I did.
But it was not the nurse who came into the room--it was two people, not
one, and I very soon found out, even without opening my eyes, who the
two people were. They were papa and mother. They came in quite softly
and sat down near the fire. It was the month of October, and rather
cold.
"Are they all asleep, Marie?" said papa. I must tell you that though
mother is quite English, her name is "Marie." I think it was because she
had a French godmother, and I do think it is such a pretty name.
Mother glanced round at us.
"Yes," she said, in a low voice, "they are all asleep. Oh, Horace, my
darlings!"
At first when I heard mother say "yes," I laughed a little to myself. I
didn't mean to listen in any mean way, of course, and a comical idea
came into my head that it was just like the ogre and his wife in the
fairy tale.--"'Wife, are they all asleep?' said the ogre. 'All fast
asleep,' said the ogre's wife." Only poor papa wasn't at all like an
ogre, and _dear_ mother wasn't a bit like the ogre's wife, though she
_was_ much nicer than her husband. I was nearly laughing out loud when
this fancy came into my head, but before I had time to laugh mother's
next words quite changed my feeling, and all in a minute I got
frightened somehow. It is so queer--isn't it?--how quickly fancies run
through one's mind. The one about the ogre and his wife came into my
head and out again between mother's saying "asleep," and "Oh, Horace."
And then, all in a moment again, came a number of other fancies.
Something must be the matter for mother to speak like that. What could
it be? I thought of all sorts of things. Could papa have lost all his
money? I had heard of such things, but I did not think I should mind it
so very much. It would be rather nice to live in a cottage, and have no
servants, and do the cooking and the washing ourselves, I thought;
though very likely mother would not think so. Could anything have
happened to Uncle Geoff? Oh no, it couldn't be that, for that would not
make mother say "my darlings," in that way. And poor little mother had
no near relations of her own whom she could have had bad news of to make
her unhappy. What _could_ be the matter? I was so frightened and anxious
to hear more, that I really quite forgot I was doing wrong in
listening, and when I heard mother give a sort of little sob, I got
still more frightened. I have often wondered since that I did not jump
out of bed and run to mother to see if I could comfort her, but a queer
_stopped_ sort of feeling seemed to have come over me. I could do
nothing but listen, and though it is now so many years ago--five years
ago!--I can remember all the words I heard.
My father did not answer at first. Whatever was the matter, it seemed to
have been something he did not find it easy to say any comforting words
about. And mother spoke again.
"Oh, Horace, how _can_ I leave them?"
"My poor Marie," said papa. "What is to be done? I cannot give it
up--nor without you can I undertake it. Bertram would have got it if he
had had a wife, but it is never given to an unmarried man."
"I know," said mother. "I know all you can say. It is just because there
is nothing else to be done that I am so miserable. I cannot help it
to-night--to-morrow I will try to be braver; but--oh, I have been so
happy with them to-day, and so glad they were getting better and that
dear little Racey had not got it--for whatever Dr. Nutt says, I cannot
help being glad of that--oh, I have been so happy with them."
"Perhaps it was cruel of me to tell you to-night," said papa very
sorry-ly.
"Oh no, it was much better," said mother, quickly. "There is so little
time, and so much to settle. Besides, you couldn't have kept it from me,
Horace. I should have been sure to find out there was something the
matter. Tell me what is the latest we should have to go."
"Six or seven weeks hence. I don't think it could possibly be made
later," said papa. And then he went on to explain things to mother,
which at that time I couldn't understand (though I dare say I should
now), and therefore have forgotten--about the work he would have to do,
and the money he would get, and all that.
But I had heard enough. My heart seemed as if it was going to stop.
Mother going away--to have to live without mother--it didn't seem to me
so much a grief, as an impossibility. I think I was rather a babyish
child for my age in some ways. I was very fond of the boys, and I was
very unhappy if ever I was away from them, but I don't think I had ever
thought much about whether I loved anybody or not. And I know that
sometimes people said I wasn't affectionate. Things hadn't happened to
make me think about anything in any deep way. We had always lived in the
same house--even in the same rooms--and we had had our breakfasts and
dinners and teas with the same plates and cups and saucers, and mother
had always been there, just like the daylight to us. I couldn't _fancy_
being without her, and so just at first I couldn't tell if I was
dreadfully unhappy or not. I was too startled to know. But I think in
another moment I would have jumped out of bed and rushed to mother, if I
hadn't heard just then something which I quite understood, and which I
listened to with the greatest interest and curiosity.
"Yes," mother was saying, for, for a minute or two, you understand, I
hadn't been listening. "Yes, I see no better plan. It isn't as if either
you or I had had a mother or sisters to send them to. And as you say,
with Geoffrey, their _health_ will be thoroughly looked after, and he
will be very kind to them, and we can depend on his telling us the truth
about them. Anything is better than sending them to strangers."
"That's what he said," replied papa. "He was quite full of it when I
went to-day to tell him of this most unexpected proposal. He is so very
eager for me to accept it that he would do anything. His house is
large, much larger than he needs; and of course he knows more about
children than most unmarried men, through seeing them so constantly when
they are ill. And then, Marie, there is Partridge--that is a great
thing."
"Yes," said mother, gently, but not very eagerly. I knew the tone of her
voice when she spoke that way--I could feel that she was smiling a
little--she always did when she didn't want to seem to disagree with
papa and yet didn't quite agree with him, for papa always gets so eager
about things, and is sure they'll all come right. "Yes," said mother,
"I'm sure Partridge is very good and kind, but she's old, you know,
Horace. Audrey and the boys must have a young nurse, besides--I wish
Pierson were not going to be married."
Pierson was the nurse we had just then--she was going to be married in a
fortnight, but we didn't much care. She had only been about a year with
us, and we counted her rather a grumpy nurse. She always thought that we
should catch cold if we ran into the garden without being all muffled
up, or that we should break our necks even if we climbed _tiny_ trees.
"I don't know," said papa. "She would never have got on with Partridge.
A younger one would be better."
"Perhaps," said mother. But her tone had grown dreadfully low and sad
again. It almost seemed as if she could not speak at all. Only in a
minute or two I heard her say again, still _worse_ than before, "Oh, my
darlings! Oh, Horace, I don't think I _can_ bear it. Think of dear
little Racey, and my pretty Tom, and poor Audrey--though I don't know
that she is naturally so affectionate as the boys--think of them all,
Horace--alone without us, and us _so_ far away."
"I know," said papa, sadly. "I know it all. It is terribly hard for you.
But let us try not to talk any more about it this evening. To-morrow you
may feel more cheerful--I don't know about Audrey not being so
affectionate as the boys," he added, after a little pause; "perhaps it
is that she's older and more reserved. They are such little chaps. She's
very good and motherly to them any way, and that's one comfort."
"Indeed it is," said mother. "She's a queer little girl, but she's very
good to the boys. We must go down-stairs now," she went on, "and I must
send Pierson to carry Racey to his own bed. I am so afraid of waking
Audrey and Tom, perhaps I had better carry him myself."
She came towards my bed as she spoke, and after seeming to hesitate a
little, stepped close up to the side. Poor mother! I didn't understand
it then, but afterwards, when I thought over that strange evening, as I
so often did, I seemed to know that she had been _afraid_ of looking at
us--that she could not bear to see our happy sleeping faces with what
she knew, in her heart. It is funny, but lots of things have come to me
like that. I have remembered them in my mind without understanding them,
like parrot words, with no meaning, and then long afterwards a meaning
has come into them, and that I have never forgotten. It was a little
that way with what I overheard that evening--the meaning that came into
it all afterwards made such a mark on my mind that even though I may not
have told you just exactly the words papa and mother said, I am sure I
have told you the sense of them rightly.
Well, mother came up to my bedside and stood looking at us--Racey and
me. I _fancied_ she looked at Racey most--he was her "baby" you know,
and I didn't mind even if sometimes it seemed as if she cared more for
Tom and him than for me. They were such dear little boys to kiss, and
they had such a pretty way of petting mother. I knew I hadn't such
loving ways, and that sometimes it seemed as if I didn't care for
mother--when I wanted to say nice words they wouldn't come. But I never
minded a bit, however much mother petted the boys-- I felt as if I was
like her in that--we were like two mothers to them I sometimes pleased
myself by fancying.
Mother stood looking at us. For a minute or two I still kept my eyes
shut as if I were asleep. We often played with each other at
that--"foxing," we used to call it. But generally we couldn't manage it
because of bursting out laughing. To-night it wasn't _that_ feeling that
made it difficult for me to go on "foxing." It was quite a different
one. Yet I was, too, a very little afraid of mother knowing I had been
listening--it began to come into my mind that it was not a nice thing to
do--a little like telling stories--and I almost am afraid I should not
have had courage to tell mother if it had not been that just then as she
stood there looking at us I heard her give a little sob. _Then_ I could
bear it no longer. I jumped up in bed and threw my arms round her neck.
"Mother, mother," I cried, "I have _heard_. I wasn't really asleep. I
didn't mean to listen, but I couldn't help it. Oh, mother, mother, are
you going away? You _can't_ go away--what should we do?"
Mother did not answer. She just held me close in her arms--very close,
but without speaking. At last, after what seemed quite a long time, she
said very softly,
"My poor little Audrey."
I pressed my arms still tighter round her.
"Mother," I said, "I heard you say something about me. Mother, I do love
you--you said I wasn't affectionate, but I'm sure I love you."
"Poor little Audrey," she said again. "I am sorry you heard that. You
must not think I meant that you don't love me. I cannot quite make you
understand how I meant, but I did not mean that. And oh, Audrey, how
glad I am to think that you love the boys so much. You are a very kind
sister to them, and you do not know what a comfort it is to me just now
to think of that."
"Do you mean because of your going away, mother?" I asked. "Will you
_really_ go away? Will it be for a long time, mother? As long as a
month, or two months?"
"Yes," said mother, "quite as long as that I am afraid. But you must go
to sleep now, dear. You are not quite well yet, you know, and you will
be so tired to-morrow if you don't have a good night. Try and not think
any more about what you heard to-night; and to-morrow, or as soon as I
can, I will tell you more."
"I did hear more," I said in a low voice, "I heard about our going to
uncle Geoff's. Mother, is uncle Geoff nice?"
"Very," said mother. "But, Audrey, you must go to sleep, dear."
"Yes, mother, I will in one minute," I said. "But do tell me just one
thing, _please_ do."
Mother turned towards me again. She had just been preparing to lift
Racey.
"Well, dear?" she said.
"I do _so_ want to know what suits the boys would travel in," I said. "I
have my big, long coat, but they haven't got such big ones. Mother,
_don't_ you think they should have new ulsters?"
Mother gave a little laugh that was half a sigh.
"Audrey," she said, "what a queer child you are!-- But perhaps," she
added to herself in a low voice, "perhaps it is as well."
I heard the words, and though I could not quite see that there was
anything queer in my thinking about new ulsters for the boys, I did not
tease mother any more about them just then. She kissed me again quite
kindly, and then carried Racey away. He just woke up a very little as
she lifted him, and gave a sort of cross wriggle--poor little boy, he
had been so comfortably asleep. But when he saw that it was mother who
was lifting him, he left off being cross in one moment.
"Dear little muzzie," he said, and though he was too sleepy to open his
eyes again, he puckered up his little red lips for a kiss. "Muzzie," was
what the boys called mother sometimes for a pet name. It wasn't very
pretty, but she didn't mind.
"My darling little Racey," she said, as she kissed him; and somehow the
way she said "darling" made me wish just a little that I was Racey
instead of myself. Yet I didn't think about it much. My fancy would go
running on about going to uncle Geoff's, and the journey, and how I
would take care of the boys and all that; and when I went to sleep I had
such queer dreams. I thought uncle Geoff had a face like Pierson when
she was cross, and that he wore a great big ulster buttoned all down the
back instead of the front, because, he said, that was the fashion in
China.
[Illustration]