THE AIR-GARDEN.
"But children, good though they may be,
Must cry sometimes when they are sad."
It was not quite so bad the next morning. That is one good thing of
being a child, I suppose--at least mother says so--things never are
quite so bad the next morning!
We all slept very soundly; we had three nice little beds in one rather
big room, which we thought a very good plan; and the first thing that
woke me was feeling something bump down on the top of me all of a
sudden. It was Racey. He looked quite bright and rosy, all his tiredness
gone away; and then you know he was really such a _very_ little
boy--only five--that he could not be expected to remember very long
about poor mother going away and all our trouble.
"Audrey," he said, in what he meant to be a whisper, but it was a very
loud one, "Audrey, I don't want to wake Tom. Poor Tom's so tired.
Audrey, let me get in 'aside you."
He had clambered out of his bed and into mine somehow; and though it was
against rules to get into each other's beds--mother had had to make the
rule because Tom and I got in the way of waking each other so dreadfully
early to tell stories--I could not this first morning refuse to let the
poor little thing get in under the nice warm clothes to be cuddled.
"Oh dear, Racey, what cold little toes you've got," I said. "You haven't
been running about without your slippers on, surely?"
"Just for a minute; don't tell Pierson," said Racey. "I wanted to look
out of the window. Audrey, this is such a funny place--there's no trees
and no garden--and lots and lots of windows. Is all the windows Uncle
Geoff's?"
"Oh, no--there are lots of other people's houses here," I said. Poor
little Racey had never been in a town before. "In London all the houses
are put close together. You see, Racey, there are such a lot of people
in London there wouldn't be room for all the houses they need if each
had a garden."
"But some peoples has little gardens--_air_ gardens," said Racey
eagerly. "There's one I sawed out of the window."
"_Air_ gardens! What do you mean, Racey?" I said.
"High up--up in the air," he explained. "Sticking up all of theirselves
in the air."
"Oh, I know what you mean--you mean a little glass place for flowers," I
said. "I've seen those--once I was in London before with mother, in a
cab, when we were coming from Tonbridge Wells."
"_Were_ you?" said Racey, greatly impressed. "Was Tom?"
"No, not Tom--only me. When we're dressed, Racey, I'd like to look out
of the window at the air garden."
"Come _now_," said Racey. But I firmly refused to get out of bed till
Pierson came, as it was one of the things mother had particularly told
me not to do--we had so often caught cold with running about like that.
And it was a good thing we didn't, for just then Pierson came into the
room looking rather cross, and if she had found us running about without
our slippers on she'd have been crosser still.
"It's time to get up, Miss Audrey," she said in a melancholy tone,
"past half-past-eight; though I'm sure no one would think so by the
light. I hope you've had a good night--but--" as she suddenly caught
sight of my little visitor, "whatever's Master Racey doing in your bed?"
Racey ducked down under the clothes to avoid being caught, and Pierson
was getting still crosser, when fortunately a diversion of her thoughts
was caused by Tom, who just then awoke.
"Oh dear!" he said with a great sigh, "oh dear! Will the ship have gone
yet?"
He was hardly awake, but he sat up in bed, and his big sad eyes seemed
to be looking about for something they could not find. Then with another
sigh he lay down again. "I was dreaming," he said, "that we got a letter
to say we were to go in the train again to South--South--that place
where the ship goes from, and that Uncle Geoff was the man on the
engine, and he kept calling to us to be quick or the ship would be gone.
Oh dear, I wish it had been true!"
Poor Tom! Pierson forgot her crossness in trying to comfort him. Of us
all I'm sure he was her favourite, even though he was very mischievous
sometimes. We all went on talking about Tom's dream till Pierson had
got back into quite a good temper--a good temper to _us_, that is to
say, for she at last confided to us what had made her so cross. She
"couldn't abide that Mrs. Partridge," that was the burden of her song.
"Stupid, fussy old thing," she called her, "going on about Master Tom's
eyes last night. I dare say I shouldn't say so to you, Miss Audrey, but
I can't help owning I _was_ glad you spoke up to her as you did. She's
that tiresome and interfering,--as if I didn't know my own work! I'll be
sorry to leave you, my dears, when the time comes, which it will only
too soon; but I can't say that there'd be peace for long if that stupid
old woman was to keep on meddling."
We were all full of sympathy for Pierson, and indignant with Mrs.
Partridge.
"Never mind, Pierson," we said, "we won't take any notice of her. We'll
just do what _you_ tell us."
So breakfast was eaten in the most friendly spirit, and after breakfast,
our hands and faces being again washed, and our hair receiving a second
smooth, we were taken down-stairs to be inspected by Uncle Geoff.
He was busy writing in a small room behind the dining-room--a rather
gloomy, but not uncomfortable little room. A fire was of course
burning brightly in the grate, but for a minute or two we all three
stood near the door, not venturing further in, for though Uncle Geoff
had replied "come in" to Pierson's tap, he did not at once look up when
we made our appearance, but went on finishing his letter. Some mornings
he had to go out very early, but this was not one of them; but instead
of going out, he had a great many very particular letters to write, and
it was difficult for him to take his mind off them even for a minute. I
understand that now, but I did not then; and I was rather offended that
the boys and I should be left standing there without his taking any
notice. Racey kept tight hold of my hand, and Tom looked up at me with a
surprised, puzzled expression in his eyes. I didn't so much mind for
myself, but I felt very sorry for the boys. I was not at all a shy
child, as I have told you, and I had rather a sharp temper in some ways;
so after fidgeting for a moment or two I said suddenly--
[Illustration: 'May we come near the fire, if you please?']
"May we come near the fire, if you please; or if you don't want us may
we go back to the nursery?"
For an instant still Uncle Geoff took no notice. Then he laid down his
pen and looked at us--at me in particular.
"What did you say, my little lady?"
I got more angry. It seemed to me that he was making fun of me, and that
was a thing I never could endure. But I did not show that I was angry. I
think my face got red, but that was all, and I said again quietly, but
not in a very nice tone, I dare say--
"I wanted to know if we might go back to the nursery if you don't want
us, or at least if we might come near the fire. It isn't for me, it is
for the boys. Mother doesn't like them to stand in a draught, and
there's a great draught here."
"Dear me, dear me, I beg your pardon," said Uncle Geoff, with a comical
smile. "Come near the fire by all means. My niece and nephews are not
accustomed to be kept waiting, I see."
He pulled forward a big arm-chair to the fire as he spoke, and lifting
Racey up in his arms, popped him down in one corner of it. He was
turning back for Tom, but Tom glanced up at me again from under his
eyelids in the funny half-shy way he did when he was not sure of any
one. I took his hand and led him forward to the fire.
"Tom is quite big," I said. "He's never counted like a baby."
Again Uncle Geoff looked at me with his comical smile. I felt my face
get red again. I am ashamed to say that I was beginning to take quite a
dislike to Uncle Geoff.
"He's just as horrid as Mrs. Partridge," I said to myself. "I'm sure
mother wouldn't have left us here if she had known how they were going
to go on."
But aloud I said nothing.
Uncle Geoff himself sat down on the big arm-chair, and took Racey on his
knee.
"So you're to be the boys' little mother--eh, Audrey?" he began. "It's a
great responsibility, isn't it? You'll have a good deal to do to teach
_me_ my duty too, won't you?"
I did not answer, but I'm afraid I did not look very amiable. Uncle
Geoff, however, took no notice. He drew Tom gently forward, and as Tom
did not pull back at all, I let go his hand. Uncle Geoff made him stand
between his knees, and, placing a hand on each of his shoulders, looked
rather earnestly into his eyes. Tom fidgeted a little--he stood first on
one leg, and then on the other, and glanced round at me shyly; but still
he did not seem to mind it.
"He's his mother's boy," said Uncle Geoff, after a minute or two's
silence. "He has her pretty eyes."
That was a lucky remark. After all, Uncle Geoff must be much nicer than
Mrs. Partridge, I decided, and I drew a little nearer. Uncle Geoff
looked up at me.
"And you, Audrey?" he went on. "No, you're not like your mother."
"I'm not nearly as pretty," I said.
"You're more like your father," he continued, without noticing my
remark. "And Racey--who is he like? Where did you get that white skin,
and that golden--not to say red--hair, sir?" he said, laughing. "Whom
_is_ he like?"
"Like hisself," said Tom, smiling.
"Yes, that is quite certain," said Uncle Geoff. "And now, my friends,
having looked you all over, so that for the future I shall know which is
which, tell me how you are going to amuse yourselves to-day?"
We looked at each other--that is to say, the boys looked at me and I at
them, but we did not know what to say.
"It is too bad a day for you to go out, I fear," continued Uncle Geoff,
glancing up at the window from which only other houses' windows and a
very dull bit of gray sky were to be seen. "It's not often we have
bright days at this time of year in London. But we must try to make you
happy in the house. Partridge will get you anything you want. Did your
mother tell you about the tutor?"
"Yes, Uncle Geoff," I said, meekly enough, but feeling rather depressed.
I did not at all like being referred to _Partridge_ for anything we
wanted. "Mother told us we were to have lessons every day from a
gentleman. She said it would be better than a lady, because Tom is
getting so big."
"Of course; and by next year he'll be going to school, perhaps."
"But that won't be till after papa and mother come home," I said
hastily. "Mother never said anything about that--and of course they'll
be home long before next year," I continued, a misgiving darting through
me which I refused to listen to.
Uncle Geoff looked a little troubled, but he just nodded his head.
"Oh, of course, there's lots of time to think of Tom's going to school,"
he said, as he rose from his chair. "I must be off, I fear," he went
on. "You know I am a dreadfully busy person, children, and I shall not
be able to see as much of you as I should like. But with Partridge, and
your tutor, and your nurse--by the by, I must not forget about her
having to leave before long. You know about that--your mother told me
you did?"
"Yes," I replied. "Pierson is to be married on the tenth of next month.
But--" I hesitated.
"But what?" said Uncle Geoff.
"I wish we needn't have a nurse. I'm _sure_ I could dress and bath the
boys, and we'd be so happy without a nurse."
Uncle Geoff laughed heartily at this, and I felt very vexed with him
again. And just then unfortunately a knock came at the door, and in
answer to Uncle Geoff's "Come in," Mrs. Partridge made her appearance
smiling and curtesying in a way that made me feel very angry.
"Good morning, Partridge," said Uncle Geoff; "here I am surrounded with
my new family, you see."
"Yes, sir, to be sure, and I hope they are very good young ladies and
gentlemen, and won't trouble their kind uncle more than they can help,"
said Mrs. Partridge. Uncle Geoff was used, I suppose, to her prim way of
speaking, for he seemed to take no notice of it. He began buttoning his
great-coat before the fire.
"You'll look after them, and make them happy, Partridge," said he as he
turned to the door.
"Of _course_, sir," she replied. And then in a lower voice she added as
she followed him out of the room, "I sha'n't be sorry, sir, when
Pierson, the nurse, goes. She's so very interfering like."
"Ah well, well, it's only for a very short time, and then we must look
out for some suitable person. My little niece, by the by, has been
begging me not to get a nurse at all; she says she's sure she could wash
and dress the boys herself--what do you think of that, Partridge?"
"It's all that Pierson, sir," said Partridge; "it's all jealousy of
another coming after her, you may be sure. Not but that,"--by this time
Uncle Geoff and the old servant were out in the hall, but my ears are
very sharp, and one can always catch one's own name more quickly than
anything else--"not but that Miss Audrey's far too up-spoken for her
age. She has been spoilt by her mother very likely--the only girl."
"Perhaps," said Uncle Geoff. "Her father did tell me she was rather an
odd little girl--a queer temper if taken the wrong way. But we must do
our best with them, poor little things. Miss Audrey seems very fond of
her brothers, any way."
Partridge said nothing more aloud, but it seemed to me I caught a
murmured "far too fond of managing and ordering them about for her age,"
and I boiled with indignation, all the deeper that I was determined not
to show it. I was angry with Mrs. Partridge most of all, of course, and
angry with Uncle Geoff. I was not angry with papa-- I did not mind his
having told Uncle Geoff that I had a queer temper, for I knew it was
true, and I did not mind Uncle Geoff knowing it; but I was horribly
angry at his talking me over with Partridge, and making fun of what I
had said, and most determined that she should not interfere with either
me or the boys. So when we went up to the nursery again I called my
little brothers to me.
"Tom and Racey," I said, "Mrs. Partridge is a cross, unkind old woman.
You mustn't mind what she says--you must only do what I tell you. Mother
told me I was to take care of you, and she would like you to do what I
say--you will, won't you?"
"Yes, of course," said both the boys. "Of course we love you, Audrey,
and we don't love that cross old thing one bit." "But," pursued Tom,
looking rather puzzled, "aren't we to do what Uncle Geoff says?"
"And Pierson?" said Racey.
"Pierson's soon going away. It doesn't matter for her," I said.
"But Uncle Geoff?" repeated Tom, returning to the charge. "Don't you
like him, Audrey?" he continued half timidly, as if afraid of having a
different opinion from mine. "I think he's nice."
"Oh, I dare say he's nice," said I. "Besides, any way, he's our uncle,
whether he's nice or not. But we sha'n't see him often--he's so busy,
you know. It doesn't matter for him. It's only that I want you always to
count me first--like as if I was instead of mother, you know. That's
what mother wants."
"Yes, dear Audrey, _dear_ Audrey," cried both boys at once. And then
they put their arms round my neck, and hugged me so that we all three
rolled on the floor, and Pierson, coming in just then, would no doubt
have scolded us, but that her mind was too full of Mrs. Partridge and
her offences to take in anything else.
"It isn't _her_ house," she said, "and I'm sure to hear how she goes on
any one might think it was."
"What does she say, Pierson?" I asked, coming close to Pierson, and
looking up in her face.
"Oh, nonsense--grumbling about what an upset it's been in the house,
children coming; having to take down the bed in this room, and get new
little ones, and all that sort of talk. And worry-worrying at me to see
that you don't scratch the walls, or go up and down-stairs with dirty
boots on, and all such nonsense. And after all, what could be more
natural than your coming here? Dr. Gower is own brother to your papa,
and no one else belonging to him. But I'm sure if it wasn't for what
Harding would say," Harding was Pierson's going-to-be husband, "and that
I really _durstn't_ put him off again, I'd--I'd--I really don't know
what I'd do."
"What would you do? Do tell me, Pierson," I entreated.
"I don't know, Miss Audrey. I'm silly, I suppose; but it seems to me if
your mamma could have left you with me in some little house in a nice
country place, we might have been ever so happy."
"Only our lessons, Pierson?" I said regretfully. "And Harding wouldn't
wait, would he?--so there's no use thinking about it."
"None whatever, and of course it's true about lessons. No doubt Master
Tom--and you too, Miss Audrey--will need good teachers. I must just hope
that whoever comes after me will be good to you and not let that old
woman put upon you."
"She sha'n't put upon _the boys_ any way," I said, with so determined a
look in my face that Pierson was quite startled. "You may be sure of
that; for whatever I'd bear for myself, I'd bear nothing for them."
"But it wouldn't be as bad as that, Miss Audrey," said Pierson, rather
startled at the effect of her words. "Of course they all _mean_ to be
kind to you--there's no doubt about that; and then your papa and mamma
wished you to stay here. I shouldn't talk so out to you as I do, but I
was just that vexed at Mrs. Partridge interfering so."
I turned upon Pierson impatiently.
"I wish you wouldn't be so changeable," I said. "I can't bear people
that say a thing and then try to unsay it. I don't believe they _do_
mean to be kind to us."
"Hush, hush, Miss Audrey, don't let your brothers hear what you are
saying, any way. We must try and find something to amuse them with, this
dull day."
I went into the day nursery to see what the boys were doing, for my
conversation with Pierson had been in the bedroom. Poor little boys,
they did not look very merry. Racey, who was cleverer at amusing himself
than Tom, was creeping about the floor drawing an imaginary cart, in
reality the lid of Pierson's bonnet-box, to which with some difficulty
he had ingeniously fastened his own two boots as horses, for the toys we
had brought with us were not yet unpacked. Racey was quite cracked about
horses--he turned everything into horses.
"Look, Audrey, look," he said. "See my calliage and pair. But Tom won't
play."
"How could I play with that rubbish?" said Tom. "Indeed, I don't care to
play at all. I don't want Pierson to unpack our toys."
"Why not?" I asked, rather puzzled.
Tom was sitting on the window-sill, which was wide--for the house was
rather an old one I think--swinging his feet about and staring gloomily
at the dull rows of houses opposite.
"Why don't you want Pierson to unpack our toys?" I repeated.
"Oh because--because-- I can't quite say what I mean. If our toys were
all unpacked and put out nicely like they used to be at--at home," said
poor Tom with a tremble in his voice, "it would seem as if we were to
stay here _always_--as if it was to be a sort of a home to us, and you
know it would only be a pertence one. I'd rather just have it like it
is, and then we can keep thinking that it's only for a little--just till
they come back again."
I did not answer at once. What he said made me think so much of that day
when poor mother couldn't bear to pack up any pretty things for her
house in China, because she said she didn't want to make a home of it.
It was queer that Tom should say just the same--it must be true that he
was like mother.
"Audrey," he went on again in a minute, still staring out of the window,
in the same dull way, "Audrey, how many _days_ will it be till they come
back again?"
"I don't know," I replied.
"If we could find out exactly," he said, "I was thinking we might make a
paper--a great big paper, with marks for every day, and then every night
we might scratch one out. Papa told me he did that when he was a little
boy at school, to watch for the holidays coming, and I'm sure we want
them to come back more than any holidays."
"It might be a good plan," I said, for I didn't like to discourage Tom
in anything he took a fancy to just now. But a sick, miserable feeling
came over me when I thought that we were actually speaking of counting
the days to their return, when they had not yet _gone_. Only this
afternoon would they reach Southampton, the first stage on the terrible
long journey.
Tom still sat swinging his legs.
[Illustration: "London isn't a very nice place, _is_ it?"]
"Audrey," he said, "London isn't a very nice place, _is_ it?"
Certainly the look-out to-day was not tempting. Rain, rain--wet and
sloppy under foot, gray and gloomy over head. I pressed my cheek against
Tom's round, rosy face, and we stared out together.
"There must be _some_ happy children in London, I suppose," I said,
"children whose fathers and mothers are at home with them to make them
happy," and as I said the words, suddenly on the other side of the
street, a few doors down, my glance fell on the little conservatory
which had caught Racey's eyes--his "air garden." I pointed it out to
Tom, who listened with interest to Racey's funny name for it.
"I wonder," I said, "if there are happy children in that house?"
[Illustration]