THREE LITTLE TRAVELLERS.
"What will she do for their laughter and plays,
Chattering nonsense, and sweet saucy ways?"
I will now try to go straight on with my story. But I cannot help saying
I do not find it quite so easy as I thought. It is so very difficult to
keep things in order and not to put in bits that have no business to
come for ever so much longer. I think after this I shall always be even
more obliged than I have been to people that write stories, for really
when you come to do it, it isn't nearly so easy as you'd think, though
to _read_ the stories, it seems as if everything in them came just of
itself without the least trouble.
I told you that after it was really settled and known, and all arranged
about the goings away, things seemed to go on very fast. In one way
they did and in one way they didn't--for now when I look back to it, it
seems to me that that bit of time--the time when it was all quite
settled to _be_ and yet hadn't come--was very long. I hear big people
say that children get quickly accustomed to anything. I think big people
do too. We all--papa and mother, and the boys and I, and even Pierson
and the other servants--got used to feeling something was going to come.
We got used to living with people coming to see the house, and every now
and then great vans coming from the railway to take away packing-cases,
and an _always_ feeling that the day--the dreadful day--was going to
come. Of course I cannot remember all the little particular things
exactly, but I have a very clear remembrance of the sort of way it all
happened, so though I may not be able to put down just the very words we
said and all that, still it is telling it truly, I think, to put down as
nearly as I _can_ the little bits that make the whole. And even some of
the littlest bits I can remember the most clearly--is not that queer? I
can remember the dress mother had on the last morning, I can remember
_just_ how the scarf round her neck was tied, and how one end got
rumpled up with the way Tom clung to her, and hugged and hugged her with
his arms round her, so tight, that papa had almost to force him away.
But in my usual way I am going on too fast--at least putting things out
of their places. I do not think I in the least understood then, what I
do so well understand now, how terribly hard it must have been for
mother to leave _us_; how much more dreadful her part of it was than any
one else's. I must have seemed very heartless. I remember one day when
she was packing books and music and odd things that she would not of
course have taken with her just for a journey, I said to her, "Why,
mother, what a lot of books you are taking! And all those table-covers
and mats and things--you never take those when we go to the sea-side."
Papa was standing by and mother looked up at him. "Need I take them?"
she said. "It is as if I were going to make a home out there, and oh,
how can it ever be like a home? How could I wish it to be? The barer and
less home-like the better I should like it."
Papa looked troubled.
"We have to think of appearances, you know," he said. "So many people
will come to see you, and it would not do to look as if we took no
interest in the place."
Mother said no more. She went on with her packing, and I think a good
many big tears were packed among the things in that box.
I asked her one day how long she and papa would stay away. "Longer than
we stay at the sea-side in summer?" I said. "Three months?--as long as
that, mother? Any way you'll be home before our birthdays."
For, rather funnily, all our three birthdays came close together--all in
one week. We thought it the most important time of the whole year, and
we counted everything by the birthday week, and when mother didn't
answer at once "Oh yes, we shall certainly be home by the birthday
week," I felt quite astonished. But just then something or other put it
out of my head, and I forgot to speak of it again. I can't think now how
I could be so silly in some ways as I was then--it is so queer to
remember.
Well--the day _did_ come. We--the boys and I--were the first to leave
our dear old home, even though our journey was to be such a short
one--only three hours to London. Papa and mother were to start on
_their_ journey the next day, so we were not to see them again. They had
been at Uncle Geoff's the week before, seeing the rooms we were to have,
and settling everything; and I think they thought it was better not to
see us again, after we were in his house, but to get the parting over in
our old home. I suppose they thought we would get over it more quickly
if the journey and the newness of it all was to come after, and I
daresay they were right.
I can't tell you about the saying good-bye. It was so bad for us, though
we could not understand it at all properly of course, that for mother it
must have been awful. And then fancy the long day after we had all left.
The empty nurseries, the sort of _sound_ of quietness through the
house--the knowing we should never, never more be all together in the
old happy way--that we should be changed _somehow_ before she saw us
again. For three years (and poor mother knew it would be three years) is
a long time at our ages, Racey would have learnt to speak plain, and Tom
would be such a big boy that he would have got out of the way of
"hugging," perhaps, and Audrey even, that was me, you know, might have
forgotten her a little--all these thoughts must have gone through
mother's mind that dreadful afternoon, when papa had taken us to the
station and seen us off to London under Pierson's care. Oh _poor_ little
mother, she has told me all about it since, and I must say if ever I am
a big lady and have children of my own, I hope these dreadful havings to
go away won't happen to me.
Well--we were in the train. Our eyes were so red that any one might have
seen something sad had happened to us, but we didn't care. Tom's eyes
were the worst of all, and generally he would do anything rather than
let his red eyes be seen; but to-day he didn't care, we were too full of
being sorry to care whether people noticed our eyes or not. And at last
when papa had kissed us all three once more for the very last time,
reaching up to the railway-carriage window, and the boys and I holding
him so tight that he was nearly choked; at last it was all over, all the
last tiny endings of good-byes over, and we three were--it seemed to us
as far as we could understand it in our childish way--alone in the
world.
There was no one else in the railway-carriage--Pierson of course was
with us--she had put off being married for two months, so that she could
see us settled and get the new nurse into our ways, as she called it;
she too had been crying, so that she was quite a fright, for her nose
was all bumpy-looking with the way she had been scrubbing at it and her
eyes. She was very kind to us; she took Racey on her knee, and let Tom
and me sit close up to her; and if she had had three arms she would have
put one round each of us I am sure.
"Poor dears!" she said, and then she looked so very sad herself that Tom
and Racey took to comforting _her_, instead of expecting her to comfort
them. I _was_ sad really--three poor little things like us going away
like that; away from everything we had ever known, away from our nice
bright nursery, where everything a mother could do to make children
happy our mother had done; away from our dear little cots, where mother
used to kiss us every night; and our little gardens where we had worked
so happily in the summer; away to great big London, where among the
thousand faces in the street there was not one we had ever seen before,
where other little boys and girls had their fathers and mothers, while
ours were going far, far away, to strange countries where they would
find no little boys and girls like their own, no Audrey and Tom and
Racey.
I thought of all this in a half-stupid way, while I sat in the
railway-carriage with my arm round Tom's neck and my head leaning on
Pierson's shoulder. We had never cared _very_ much about Pierson, but
now that she was the only thing left to us, we began to cling to her
very much.
"I am so glad you've not gone away, Pierson," I said, and Pierson seemed
very pleased, for I didn't very often say things like that.
"Poor dear Miss Audrey," she said in return. "Poor dear," seemed the
only words she could think of to comfort us with. And then we all grew
silent, and after a while it began to get dark, for the days were short
now, and Tom and Racey fell asleep, just sobbing quietly now and then in
their breathing--the way little children do, you know, after they have
been crying a good deal; and I sat quite still, staring out at the
gloomy-looking country that we were whizzing through, the bare trees and
dull fields, so different from the brightness and prettiness of even a
flat unpicturesque landscape on a _summer_ day, when the sun lights up
everything, and makes the fresh green look still fresher and more
tempting. And it seemed to me that the sky and the sun and all the
outside things were looking dull because of our trouble, and that they
were all sorry for us, and there seemed a queer nice feeling in thinking
so.
And after a while I began making pictures to myself of what I would do
to please mother while she was away; how I would be so good to Tom and
Racey, and teach them to be so good too; how I would learn to be always
neat, and how I would try to get on with music, which I didn't much
like, but which mother was so fond of that she thought I would get to
like it when I was bigger and had got over the worst part. And then I
began thinking of the letters I would write to mother, and all I would
say in them; and I wondered too to myself very much what Uncle Geoff
would be like, for I had not seen him for some time, and I couldn't
remember him properly at all; and I wondered what his house would be
like, and what sort of a nursery we should have, and what our new
governess would be like, and how everything in our new home would be. I
went on wondering till I suppose my brain got tired of asking questions
it couldn't answer, and without knowing that I was the least sleepy, I
too fell fast asleep!
I was busy dreaming--dreaming that I was on board the ship with papa and
mother, and that Uncle Geoff was a lady come to see the house; in my
dream the ship seemed a house, only it went whizzing along like a
railway, and that he had a face like Pierson's, and he would say "poor
dear Miss Audrey," when another voice seemed to mix in with my
dreaming. A voice that said--
"Poor little souls--asleep are they--all three? Which of them shall I
look after? Here nurse, you take the boys, and I'll lift out Miss
Audrey."
And "Wake up, Miss Audrey, my dear. Wake up. Here's your uncle come
himself to meet you at the station. I had no idea, sir, we were so near
London, or I'd have had them all awake and ready," said Pierson, who
never had all her ideas in order at once.
There was nothing for it but to wake up, though I was most unwilling to
do so. I was not at all shy, but yet in the humour I was in then I felt
disinclined to make friends with Uncle Geoff, and I wished he hadn't
come to the station himself. He lifted me out, however, very kindly; and
when I found myself standing on the platform, in the light of the lamps,
I could not help looking up at him to see what he was like. I felt
better inclined to like him when he put me down on my feet, for I had
been afraid he was intending to carry me in his arms till he put me into
the cab, and that would have offended me very much.
"Well, Audrey, and are you very tired?" he said kindly.
I looked up at him. He was not very tall, but very strong-looking, and
had rather a stern expression, except when he smiled; but just now he
_was_ smiling. I remembered what mother had said to me about being very
good with Uncle Geoff, and doing all he told me. So I tried to speak
very nicely when I answered him.
"No, thank you, Uncle Geoff, I am not very tired, but I am rather
sleepy; and I think the boys are very sleepy too."
"All right," said Uncle Geoff, "that is a trouble that can soon be
cured. Here nurse," he went on, turning to Pierson, "I'll take Miss
Audrey on with me in my carriage, which is waiting; but there is only
room for two in it. So my man will get a cab for you and the boys and
put the luggage on it."
Pierson was agreeing meekly, but I interfered.
"If you please, Uncle Geoff," I said, "mayn't I stay, and come in the
cab too? I don't like to leave the boys, because mother says I'm
_always_ to take care of them now."
"Miss Audrey, my dear--" began Pierson, in reproof, but Uncle Geoff
interrupted her. He did not seem at all vexed, but rather amused. I did
not like that, I would almost rather he had been vexed.
"Never mind, nurse," he said. "I like children--and grown people too
for that matter--to speak out. Of course you may stay and come in the
cab if you would rather, Audrey. But in that case I fear I shall not see
any more of you to-night. I have one or two serious cases," he went on,
turning to Pierson, "and may be very late of coming home. But no doubt
Mrs. Partridge will make you comfortable, and Audrey here seems a host
in herself. Good-night, little people."
He stooped and kissed us--kindly but rather hurriedly--and then he put
us all into a cab, and left the servant who was with him to come after
with the luggage.
"It is better not to keep them waiting," he said to Pierson as we were
driving away.
"Your uncle is very kind and considering," said Pierson; she always said
"considering" for "considerate." "I wonder you spoke that way to him,
Miss Audrey."
"I didn't speak any way to him," I said crossly. "I don't see that it
was very kind to want to send me away from the boys. Mother told me I
was to take care of them, and I'm going to do what she told me."
"And I'm sure if you're going to teach them to get into naughty tempers
and to be so cross, they'd be better without you to take care of them,"
said Pierson.
That was her way; she always said something to make us more cross
instead of saying some little gentle thing to smooth us as mamma did.
Nobody ever made me so cross just in that kind of way as Pierson did. I
am sometimes quite ashamed when I remember it. Just then I did not
answer her again or say any more. I was too tired, and I felt that if I
said anything else I should begin to cry again, and I didn't want Mrs.
Partridge to see me with red eyes. Tom and Racey pressed themselves
close to me in the cab, and Tom whispered, "Never mind, Audrey.
Pierson's an ugly cross thing. We'll do what you tell us, always--won't
we, Racey?"
And Racey said "Yes, always," and then, poor little boys, they both
patted my hands and tried to comfort me. They always did like that when
Pierson was cross, and I don't think she much liked it, and I felt that
it was rather a pity to vex her when she had meant to be kind, but still
I didn't feel much inclined to make friends.
So we drove on--_what_ a long way it seemed! We had never been in London
before, and the streets and houses seemed as if they would never come to
an end. It was a very wet evening; I dare say it looked much less dull
and gloomy now than it had been earlier in the day, for the gas lighted
up the streets, and the shops looked bright and cheerful. I could not
but look at them with interest, what quantities there were, how nice it
would have been to come to London with mother, and to have gone about
buying lots of pretty things; but now it was quite different. And once
when I saw from the cab-window a poor, but neatly-dressed little girl
about my own size walking along by her mother, holding her hand and
looking quite happy in spite of the rain, I felt so miserable I could do
nothing but press more closely the two little hands that still lay in
mine, and repeat to myself the promise I had made to mother. "Oh I
_will_ try to take care of them and make them happy and good till you
come back," and there was a great deal of comfort in the thought,
especially when I went on to make, as I was very fond of doing, pictures
of papa and mother coming home again, and of them saying how good Tom
and Racey were, and what great care I must have taken of them. I only
wished--especially since she had spoken crossly to me--that it had not
been settled for Pierson to stay with us. I felt so sure I could take
better care of the boys than any one else.
But my thoughts and plans were interrupted by our stopping at last.
Uncle Geoff's house was in a street in which there were no shops. It was
a dull-looking street at all times; to-night of course we could see
nothing but just the house where we stopped. It looked big and dull to
Tom and me as we went in; Racey, poor little fellow, didn't know
anything about how it looked, for he had fallen asleep again and had to
be carried in in Pierson's arms. The hall was a regular town house
hall--you know the kind I mean--not like ours at home, which was nicely
carpeted and had a pretty fireplace, where in winter there was always a
bright fire to welcome you on first going in; the hall at Uncle Geoff's
was cold and dull, with just oilcloth on the floor, and a stiff hall
table and hat-stand, and stiff chairs; no flower-stands or plants about,
such as mother was so fond of. And the servant that opened the door was
rather stiff-looking too. She was the housemaid, and her name was Sarah.
It was not generally she that had to open the door, but the footman had
gone to the station you know, and perhaps Sarah was cross at having to
open. And far back in the hall an oldish-looking person was standing,
who came forward when she saw it was us. She was dressed in black silk,
and she had a cap with lilac ribbons. She looked kind but rather fussy.
"And so these are the dear children," she said. "How do you do, little
missy, and little master too; and the dear baby is asleep, I see? And
how did you leave your dear papa and mamma?"
"Quite well, thank you," said Tom and I together. We squeezed each
other's hands tight; we were determined not to cry before Mrs.
Partridge, for we knew it must be her, and by the way Tom squeezed my
hand I quite understood that he had not taken a fancy to Mrs. Partridge,
and I squeezed his again to say I hadn't either.
We hated being called master and missy, and of all things Racey hated
being called "baby." Oh how angry he would have been if he had been
awake! And then I didn't like her speaking of papa and mother in that
sort of way, as if she would have liked us to say they were very ill
indeed--she had such a whiney way of talking. But of course we were
quite civil to her; we only squeezed each other's hands, and nobody
could see that.
Mrs. Partridge opened a door on the right side of the hall. It led into
the dining-room. A nice fire was burning there, but still it did not
look cheerful--"not a bit," I said to myself again--that thought was
_always_ coming into my head--"not a bit like our dining-room at home."
But still it was nice to see a fire, and Tom and I, still holding each
other's hands, went up to it and stood on the rug looking at the
pleasant blaze.
"You've had a cold journey I'm afraid," said Mrs. Partridge.
"Yes, ma'am, very," said Tom, who fancied she was speaking to him. He
blinked his eyes as he looked up to her, for he had been asleep in the
train, and coming into the light was dazzling.
[Illustration: "Dear me," said Mrs Partridge at once, "what weak eyes he
has!"]
"Dear me," said Mrs. Partridge at once, "what weak eyes he has! What do
you do for them, nurse? He must take them of his mamma, for our young
gentlemen always had lovely eyes."
"I'm sure he doesn't get ugly eyes from mother," I said indignantly.
"Mother has beautiful eyes, and Tom has nice eyes too. They're not
weak."
"Deary me, deary me," exclaimed Mrs. Partridge, "what a very
sharp-spoken young lady! I'm sure no offence was meant, only I was sorry
to see little master's eyes so red. Don't they hurt you, my dear?"
"No thank you, ma'am," said Tom, still holding my hand very tight.
He didn't quite understand what had been said. He was a very little boy
and very sleepy. I wondered what made him say "ma'am" to Mrs. Partridge,
for of course he never did in speaking to ladies. I think it must have
been some confused remembrance of our playing at ladies, for Mrs.
Partridge had a sort of peepy way of talking, something like the way we
did when we were pretending ladies.
Pierson had said nothing. I don't think _she_ liked what the old
housekeeper said about mother's eyes any better than I did, but she was
vexed with me already, and more vexed still, I suppose, at my "answering
back" Mrs. Partridge, and so she wouldn't speak at all.
Then Mrs. Partridge, who all the time _meant_ to be very kind to us, you
see, took us up-stairs to our rooms--they were on the second
floor--above what is always the drawing-room floor in a London house, I
mean, and they looked to the front. But to-night of course-- I don't
know if it is right for me to say "to-night," when I mean _that_ night,
but it is easier--we did not notice whether they looked to the front or
not. All we did notice was that in the one which was to be the day
nursery the fire was burning cheerfully, and the table was neatly spread
with a white cloth for tea.
Tom, who was looking very sad, sat down on a chair by the fire and
pulled me close to stand by him.
"Audrey," he whispered, "I do feel so sad, and I don't like that Mrs.
Partridge. Audrey, I can't eat any tea. I didn't think it would have
been nearly so bad, mother's going away and us coming to London. I don't
like London. I think it would have been much better, Audrey, if we had
died--you and I when we had the measles."
And stooping down to kiss my poor little tired brother, I saw that two
big tears were forcing themselves out of his eyes; in spite of all his
trying to be manly, and not to let Mrs. Partridge see him crying, he
could not keep them in any longer. I threw my arms round him and kissed
his poor red eyes. "Horrid old woman," I said to myself, "to say he had
ugly eyes." And a feeling came over me that I can hardly say in words,
that I would put my arms round Tom and Racey and never let them go till
mother came back again, and that _nobody_ should dare to vex them or
make them cry. I felt, in that minute, as if I had grown quite big and
strong to take care of them--as if I were really their mother. I kissed
him and kissed him, and tried to think of something to comfort him.
"Tom, dear," I said, "do come and have your things off, and try to take
some tea. There are Bath buns, Tom," I added.
But Tom still shook his head.
"No thank you, Audrey," he said. "I can't eat anything--I can't indeed.
It would have been better, Audrey, it would really, if you and I had
died."
"But poor Racey," I said. "He would have been all alone--just fancy
that."
"Perhaps they would have taken him with them," said Tom dreamily. Then
he put his arms round me and leant his little round head on my shoulder.
"I'm glad I've got _you_, Audrey," he whispered, and in that there was
some comfort. Still, altogether, I felt what he said was true; it was
very sad for us.
[Illustration]
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