REAL AND PLAY.
"And I'll be Lady Fuss-aby,
And you shall be Miss Brown."
I woke very early the next morning--for after all it had not been at all
late when I fell asleep. I woke very early, but Tom was awake before me,
for when I looked across to his bed, even before I had time to say "Tom,
are you awake?" very softly, to which if he was still feeling sleepy he
sometimes answered, "No, I'm not"--before I had even time to say that, I
saw that his bright dark eyes were wide open.
There was a night-light on the little table between our cots. Mother had
let us have it since we were ill. By rights the cot I was sleeping in
was Racey's, for I had a little room to myself, but Tom and I had been
put together because of the measles. I could not have seen Tom's face
except for the light, for it was still quite dark outside, just
beginning to get a very little morning.
"Tom," I said softly, "do you know what o'clock it is?"
"Yes," said Tom, "I think it's six. Just as I woke I heard the stair
clock striking. I only counted four, but in my sleep I'm sure there had
been two."
"Tom," I said again.
"Well," said Tom.
"Tom," I repeated. "I wish you could come into my bed or that I could
get into yours. I do so want to speak to you, and I don't like to speak
loud for fear of Pierson hearing." Pierson slept in a little room next
ours.
"Pierson's asleep," said Tom. "I heard her snoring a minute ago. We
mustn't get into each other's beds. Mother said we must promise not, for
fear of catching cold."
"I know, but it's a pity," I said. "Tom, do you know--oh, Tom, do you
know?"
"What?" said Tom.
"Something so wonderful, I don't know if I should tell you, but mother
didn't say I wasn't to. Tom, what should you say if we were to go
away--a long way away in the railway?"
"I'd say it was vrezy nice," said Tom. "If it was all of us together, of
course."
"Ah, but if it wasn't all of us--what would you say then?"
Tom stared at me.
"What do you mean, Audrey?" he said. "We always does go all away
together, if we go away at all."
"Oh yes--going to the sea-side and like that. But I mean something quite
different from that. Suppose, Tom, that you and me and Racey had to go
away somewhere by ourselves, what would you think of that?"
Tom's dark eyes stared at me more puzzledly than before.
"Audrey," he said, "what _can_ you mean?" He looked quite startled and
frightened. "Audrey," he said, suddenly jumping out of bed, "I must get
into your bed. I'm sure I won't catch cold, and I want to whisper to
you."
I could not help making room for him in my cot, and then we put our arms
round each other, and Tom said to me in a very low voice--"Audrey, do
you mean that Racey and you and me are all going to _die_?"
Poor Tom, he looked so pitiful when he said that I was so sorry for him.
"Oh no, Tom dear. Of course I don't mean that. What could have made you
think so?" I said.
"Because unless it was that I don't see how we _could_ go away alone.
Papa and mother would never let us. We're too little."
"I didn't mean that we'd really go alone in the railway," I explained,
"somebody would go with us--Pierson perhaps, if she wasn't married. But
still in a way it would be going away alone. Oh Tom, I have felt so
funny all night--as if I _couldn't_ believe it."
Then I told him what I had heard and what mother had told me; and all
the time we held each other tight. We felt so strange--the telling it to
Tom made it seem more real to me, and poor Tom seemed to feel it was
real at once. When I left off speaking at last, he stared at me again
with his puzzled-looking eyes, but he didn't seem as if he was going to
cry.
"Audrey," he said at last, starting up, "don't you think if we were all
to pray to God for papa and mother not to go away that that would be the
best plan?"
I didn't quite know what to say. I knew it was always a good thing to
pray to God, but yet I didn't feel sure that it would stop papa and
mother's going away. I was rather puzzled, but I didn't quite like to
say so to Tom.
"Audrey," he said, jigging me a little, "speak, be quick. Wouldn't that
be a good plan? Perhaps then a letter would come at breakfast to say
they weren't to go--wouldn't they be pleased?"
"I don't know," I said at last. "I almost think, for some things, papa
wants to go, and that it's a good thing for him, and if it's a good
thing for him I dare say God wouldn't unsettle it."
"But if it isn't a good thing for _us_?" said Tom, "and it can't be a
good thing for _us_--I'm sure God would unsettle it then."
I could not see it like that either.
"I shouldn't like to say it that way," I replied. "Don't you see that
would be like saying papa would do something that wasn't good for us,
and I shouldn't like to say that of papa--not even to God."
Tom lay down on the pillow again and gave a great sigh.
"I don't know what to do then," he said. "I am sure God would find out
some way of making it right, and it's vrezy cross of you not to let me
ask Him, Audrey. I don't believe you care a bit about them going away,
and I know it has begun to break my heart already. When you told me
first it began to thump so dreadfully fast, and then it gave a crack.
I'm sure I felt it crack," and Tom began to cry.
It was dreadful to hear him talk like that. He didn't often cry. He
wasn't a boy that cried for knocks and bumps at all, but just now he was
rather weak with having been ill, and what he said about his heart quite
frightened me. I don't know what I should have done, but just then
Pierson opened the door of her room and began scolding us for talking so
early in the morning. We were so afraid of her finding out that we were
both in one bed, that we lay quite, quite still. Tom proposed to me in a
whisper that we should begin to snore a little, but I whispered back
that it would be no use as she had heard us talking just a minute
before. And after grumbling a little more, Pierson shut the door and
retired into her own room. Then Tom put his arms round me again and
kissed me--his cross humours never lasted long; not like Racey's, who,
though he was generally very good, once he _did_ begin, went on and on
and on till one didn't know what to do with him.
"I'm very sorry for calling you cross, Audrey," he said. "Perhaps we'd
better wait and ask mother about it," and then we both kissed each
other again, and somehow, though we were so very wide awake, all in a
moment we went to sleep again and slept a good long while. For Pierson
told us afterwards that what Tom had heard striking was only four
o'clock after all.
When we woke again it was _real_ morning--quite bright and sunny. And
mother was standing beside the bedside, and little Racey beside her,
looking very smooth and shiny with his clean pinafore and clean face and
freshly brushed hair. Till I looked close at mother's face I could have
fancied that all the strange news I had heard the night before had been
a dream--it did not seem the least possible that it could be true. But
alas! her face told that it was. Her eyes looked as if she had not been
asleep, and though she was smiling it was a sort of sad smiling that
made me feel as if I couldn't help crying.
"Children," she said, "didn't you promise me not to get into each
other's beds?"
We both felt rather ashamed.
"Yes, mother," I said, "I know you did, but--"
Tom interrupted me--
"Don't be vexed with Audrey, mother," he said, jumping up and throwing
his arms round her neck, "it was most my fault. Audrey wanted to
whisper to me. Oh mother," he went on, hugging mother closer and burying
his round dark head on her shoulder, "oh mother, Audrey's _told_ me."
Then without another word Tom burst into tears--not loud crying like
when he was hurt or angry, but deep shaking sobbing as if his poor
little heart was really breaking. And for a moment or two mother could
not speak. She could only press him more tightly to her, trying to choke
back the tears that she was afraid of yielding to.
Poor Racey stood staring in fear and bewilderment--his blue eyes quite
ready to cry too, once he understood what it was all about. He gave a
little tug to mother's dress at last.
"Muzzie, what's the matter?" he said.
Mother let go her hold of Tom and turned to Racey.
"Poor little boy," she said, "he is quite frightened. Audrey, I thought
you would have understood I would tell the boys myself."
"Oh, I am so sorry," I exclaimed. "I wish I hadn't. But I did so want to
speak to somebody about it, and Tom was awake--weren't you, Tom?"
"Yes, I was awake," said Tom. "Don't be vexed with Audrey, mother."
Mother didn't look as if she had the heart to be vexed with anybody.
"I daresay it doesn't matter," she said sadly. "But, Audrey, you need
not say anything about it to Racey--it is better for him to find out
about it gradually."
After that day things seemed to hurry on very fast. Almost immediately,
papa and mother began to prepare for the great changes that were to be.
Our house had a big ticket put up on the gate, and several times ladies
and gentlemen came to look at it. Mother did not like it at all, I could
see, though of course she was quite nice to the ladies and gentlemen,
but the boys and I thought it was rather fun to have strange people
coming into the house and looking at all the rooms, and we made new
plays about it. I used to be the ladies coming to look, and Tom was the
footman to open the door, and Racey, dressed up with one of my skirts,
was mother, and sometimes Pierson, showing the ladies the rooms.
Sometimes we pretended they were nice ladies, and then Racey had to
smile and talk very prettily like mother, and sometimes they were cross
fussy ladies, and then Racey had to say "No, ma'am"--"I'm sure I can't
say, ma'am," like Pierson in her grumpiest voice. And one day something
very funny--at least long afterwards it turned out to be very
funny--happened, when we were playing that way. I must tell you about it
before I go on with the straight part of my story.
It was a wet day and no _real_ ladies had been to see the house, so we
thought as we had nothing to do we'd have a good game of pretence ones.
Racey had to be Pierson this day (of course Pierson didn't _know_ he was
acting her), and we were doing it very nicely, for a dreadfully fussy
lady had been only the day before and we had still got her quite in our
heads. I--being the lady, you know--knocked at the nursery cupboard
door, and when Tom the footman opened it, I stood pretending to look
round the entrance hall.
"Dear me, what a _very_ shabby vestibule," I said. "Not _near_ so
handsome as mine at Victoria Terrace--quite decries the house. Oh, young
man," I went on, pretending to see Tom for the first time, "this house
is to be sold, I hear? Its appearance is not what I'm accustomed to, but
I may as well give a look round, as I'm here."
And so I went on, finding fault with the dining-room, drawing-room,
&c.--Tom giving very short replies, except when a fit of laughter nearly
choked him, till I was supposed to have reached the first floor where
the imaginary Pierson took me in charge.
"You don't mean to say this is the _best_ bedroom?" I said, "how _very_
small!"
"Yes, ma'am, because you're so very fat. I daresay it _does_ seem small
to you," said Racey.
This brilliant inspiration set Tom and me off laughing so that we could
hardly speak.
"Oh, Racey," I said, returning to my real character for a minute,
"Pierson wouldn't really say that."
"She said she'd have _liked_ to say it to that ugly lady yesterday,"
said Racey. "I heard her telling Banks so, on the stair." (Banks was the
name of the real footman.) "She said, 'I'd like to tell that wat'"
(Racey couldn't say "_f_" he always call _fat_, _wat_, and _feet_,
_weet_) "'old woman that it's no wonder our rooms isn't big enough for
_her_.' And Banks did so laugh."
"Well, go on, Audrey. Perhaps Racey'll think of some more funny things,"
said Tom.
So I proceeded with my inspection of the house.
"What very common papers!" I said, looking up at the walls with an
imaginary eye-glass. "I am always accustomed to a great deal of gold on
the papers. It lightens up so well."
"Yes, mum," replied Racey, rather intoxicated by his success, and now
drawing wildly on his imagination, "yes, mum, I should think you was
becustomed to walls that was made of gold all over, and--and--"
hesitating how to make his sarcasm biting enough, "and floors made of
diamonds and pessus stones, and--"
"Racey, hush," said Tom, "you're talking out of the Bible. Isn't he,
Audrey?"
I was not quite prepared to give an opinion.
"Pierson doesn't talk like that, any way," I said, without committing
myself. "Let's go on about there not being enough rooms for the
servants. She did say that."
"And about her pet dogs," suggested Tom.
"Oh yes," I said, in the affected squeaky voice which we imagined to be
an exact copy of the way of speaking of the lady who had taken such a
hold on our fancy, "oh dear yes--I _must_ have a very good room for my
dear dogs. They are never allowed to sleep in a room without a fire, and
I am so afraid this chimney smokes."
"No, mum, it's _me_ that smokes, mum, not the chimney, mum. Sometimes I
have a cigar, mum, in my room, mum, and a room that's good enough for me
must be good enough for your dogs, mum," said Tom, the imaginary Banks.
We all three shouted with laughter at his wit, though poor Banks, the
most modest of young men, whose only peculiarity was that in his
nervousness he used to say "ma'am" or "sir" with every two words, would
have been horrified if he had known how Tom was caricaturing him. We
were still laughing when the door opened suddenly and mother with some
_real_ ladies, to whom she was showing the house, came in.
There were two ladies--a not very particular one, just rather nice, but
we didn't notice her very much, and a much younger one whom we noticed
in a minute. It was partly I think because of her pretty hair, which was
that bright goldy kind that looks as if the sun was always shining on
it. Mine is a _little_ like that, but not so bright as aun--oh, I
forgot; you wouldn't understand. And her hair showed more because of her
being all dressed in black--regular black because of somebody belonging
to her being dead I mean. She came last into the room, of course that
was right because she was youngest, and mother came in first to open the
door like--I can remember quite well the way they all stood for a
minute.
"This is the nursery, I see," said the nothing particular lady. "Well,
with me it would not be that, as I have no children. But it would make a
nice morning-room--it must be a bright room on a sunny day."
"Yes," said mother, "that is why we chose it for a nursery. It is a pity
for you to see the house on such a dull day--it is such a bright house
generally--we have liked it very much."
Mother spoke sadly--I knew the tone of her voice quite well. We all
three had of course stopped playing and stood round listening to what
was said. We must have looked rather funny--Racey with a skirt of mine
and a white apron of Pierson's, Tom with a towel tied round him to look
like Banks in the pantry, and I with an old shawl and a bonnet very much
on one side, with a long feather, which we had got out of our
"dressing-up" things. We were so interested in listening to mother and
in looking at the ladies, particularly the golden-haired one, that we
quite forgot what queer figures we were, till the young lady turned
towards us.
"These are your little children," she said, with a smile--a rather sad
smile--to mother. "They are playing at dressing-up, I see."
"We're playing at ladies coming to see the house," I said, coming
forward--I never was a shy child--"There have been such a lot of
ladies."
Mother turned to the young lady.
"It is perhaps well that they should be able to make a play of it," she
said.
"Yes," said the young lady very gently, "I remember being just the same
as a child, when once my mother had to go away--to India it was--I was
so pleased to see her new trunks and to watch all the packing. And
now--how strange it seems that I could have endured the idea of her
going--now that I shall never have her again!"
Her lip quivered, and she turned away. Mother spoke to her very, very
kindly--the other lady, the nothing particular one was examining the
cupboards in the room and did not notice.
"Have you lost your dear mother?" she--our mother, I mean--asked the
young lady.
She could not speak for a moment. She just bowed her head. Then touching
her dress she said in a sort of whisper, "Yes; quite lately. She died in
London a fortnight ago. I have neither father nor mother now. I am
staying for a while with my cousin."
Then, partly I think to hide the tears which would not be kept back,
partly to help herself to grow calm again, she drew me to her and
stroked my long hair which hung down my back below my queer bonnet.
"What is your name, dear?" she said.
"Audrey," I replied. "Audrey Mildred Gower is my long name," I added.
"'Audrey' is a very pretty name," said the young lady, still stroking my
hair, "and Gower--that is not a very common name. Are you perhaps
relations of Dr. Gower, of ---- Street?"
"That's Uncle Geoff," cried the boys and I.
"He is my husband's brother," said mother.
The young lady quite brightened up.
"Oh, how curious!" she said. "Dr. Gower was _so_ kind to my mother," and
again her pretty eyes filled with tears and her lips quivered.
Racey, staring at her, saw that something was the matter, though he had
not the least idea what. He came close up to her, stumbling over his
skirt and long apron on the way, and tugged her sleeve to catch her
attention.
"Don't cry," he said abruptly. "We're going to live with Uncle Geoff.
Perhaps he'd let you come too."
The young lady could not help smiling.
"Are they really going to live in London?" she said to mother. "Perhaps
I shall see you again then some day. I know 'Uncle Geoff's' house very
well."
But before there was time to say any more the other lady came back from
her inspection, and began asking so many things about the house that the
young lady's attention was quite taken up. And soon after they went
away. Afterwards I remember mother said she was sorry she had not asked
the young lady's name. But we among ourselves fixed to call her "Miss
Goldy-hair."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]