A NEW TROUBLE.
"Ah! folks spoil their children now;
When I was a young woman 'twas not so."
That first day passed--but drearily enough. Pierson was really very
kind--kinder than we had ever known her. Not that she had ever been
_un_kind; only grumbly--but never unkind so that the boys and I could be
_afraid_ of her, and when mother was with us, mother who was _always_
cheerful, it didn't matter much if Pierson did grumble.
But to-day she was kinder than ever before, almost as if she had known
by magic what was going to happen; and through her kindness there was a
sort of sadness which made me like her all the better. I knew she kept
thinking about poor mother--about its being her last day in England--in
the same country as her poor little boys and girl, and so did I. _All_
the day it was never out of my head for one inch of a minute, though I
didn't say so, not to make the boys think of it like that. For in their
funny way they seemed already to fancy papa and mother _quite_ away,
almost as if they were in China, and I didn't want to unsettle that
feeling, as it would only have made it worse for them again.
Pierson unpacked our toys, and after all, Tom did cheer up a little when
he saw his soldiers and his fort, which had been best toys at home, but
which mamma told Pierson were to be every-day ones in London, both to
please Tom and because there had been such a great throwing away of old
ones, not worth packing, that really we should have had none to play
with if our best ones had been kept _for_ best. Mother had had such a
good thought about our toys--almost as soon as it was really fixed about
papa and her going away, she had begun packing up the good ones, so that
when we got them out in London they seemed quite new, for it was nearly
two months since we had had them, and it was quite a pleasure to see
them again, though a little sadness too. Every one that came out of the
box, there was something to say about it.
"My best paint-box that mother gave me last Christmas," Tom would say,
or "My dear little pony horse with the little riding man, that Muzzie
made a jacket for," Racey cried out. While as for me, every doll that
appeared--dolls of course were my principal toys, and I had quite a lot
of them--reminded me of some kind thought that perhaps I had not noticed
enough at the time. Racey was perfectly silly about his horses--he loved
them so that he almost provoked Tom and me--and we looked at each other
as much as to say, "He doesn't understand." He really was, I suppose,
too little to keep the thought of our trouble long in his mind, even
though he had cried so dreadfully the day before, and I think the sight
of his forgetting, as it were, made me all the sadder.
But when the toys were all arranged in their places, and the long day
was over at last, even Racey grew dull, and unlike himself. It had been
a very long day--we had not been out of our own rooms at all, except
just for those few minutes in the morning, to see Uncle Geoff. He ran up
to see us again in the evening--about four o'clock, our tea-time, that
is to say--and said he was sorry the weather was so bad, he hoped it
would be better to-morrow, but even as he was speaking to us the
man-servant came up to say he was wanted again, and he had to run off.
And I'm sure all the afternoon the bell had never left off ringing, and
there were lots and lots of carriages came to the door, with ladies and
gentlemen and even children, to see him. If we could have watched the
people getting out and in of the carriages it would have been fun, but
from the day nursery window we couldn't see them well, for standing up
on the window-sill was too high, and standing on a chair was too low. It
wasn't till some time after that, that we found out we could see them
beautifully from the bedroom window, by putting a buffet in an old
rocking-chair that always stood there. And by four o'clock it was quite
dark!
After tea we all sat round the fire together--_the_ thought, I know, was
still in Pierson's mind and mine--whether it was in Tom's or not, I
don't know, for he didn't say anything. Only we were all tired and dull,
and Racey climbed up on to Pierson's knee, and told her he would go away
to the country with her--"London was such a ugly place." And Pierson
sighed, and said she wished he could. And then she began telling us
about the village in the country, that was her home, and where she was
going back again to live, when she was married to Harding, who was the
blacksmith there. Her father had been a farmer but he had died, and her
mother was left very poor, and with several children. And Pierson was
the eldest, and couldn't be married to Harding for a long time, because
she had to work for the others, so perhaps it was all her troubles that
had made her grumpy. But now all the others were settled--some were in
America and some were "up in the north," she said. We didn't know what
that meant--afterwards Tom said he thought it meant Iceland, and Racey
thought it meant the moon, but we forgot to ask her. So now Pierson was
going at last to be married to Harding.
"Is he _all_ black?" I remember Tom asked.
"All black, Master Tom," Pierson said, rather indignantly. "Of course
not--no blacker than you or me, though perhaps his hands may be brown.
But once he's well cleaned of the smoke and the dust, he's a very nice
complexion for a working man. Whatever put it in your head that he was
black?"
"'Cause you said he was a blacksmith," said Tom, "and I thought it was
something like a sweep, and sweeps never can get white again, can they?
It says so in the Bible."
I burst out laughing. "He means about the Ethiopian," I said, but
Pierson didn't laugh. That was one of the things I didn't like about
her. She never could see any fun in anything, and she still looked
rather offended at Tom. "All black," she repeated. "What an idea!"
I tried to put her in a good humour again by asking her to tell us about
her house. It was a very pretty cottage, she said, next door to the
smithy, but of course a different entrance, and all that.
"Has it roses on the walls?" I asked, and "Yes," Pierson replied.
"Beautiful roses--climbing ones of all colours. And there's a nice
little garden in front. It's a very pretty cottage, but most of the
cottages in our village are pretty. It's a real old-fashioned village,
Miss Audrey--I would like you to see it--it's not so very far from
London."
"Will you go there in the same railway we came in?" asked Tom.
"Oh no," said Pierson, "it's quite the other way from
Elderling."--Elderling was our old home. "It's only two hours and a half
from town, by express. You go to Coppleswade Junction, and then it's a
walk of five miles to Cray--that's the name of the village, and
Coppleswade's the post-town."
"Perhaps," said I, "perhaps some time we'll come and see you, Pierson."
Pierson smiled, but shook her head. She was at no time of a very
sanguine or hopeful disposition.
"It would be nice," she said, "too nice to come true, I'm afraid. I
would like to show you all to mother. Poor mother, she's counting the
days till I come--she's very frail now, and she's been so long alone
since Joseph went to America. But it's getting late, my dears. I must
put you to bed, or we'll have Mrs. Partridge up to know what we're
about."
"Horrid old thing!" I said. And when Pierson undressed us, and had
tucked us all in comfortably, we kissed her, and repeated how much we
wished that we were going to live in the pretty village of Cray with
her, instead of staying in this gloomy London, with Mrs. Partridge.
I have often thought since, how queer it was that Pierson should have
been so very nice that last night, and from that what a great lot of
things have come! You will see what I mean as I go on. I can't help
thinking--this is quite a different thought, nothing to do with the
other--that without knowing it people _do_ sometimes know what is going
to happen before it does. It seemed like that that night, for I had
never known Pierson quite so nice as she was then.
Late that evening--it seemed to me the middle of the night, but it
couldn't really have been more than nine or ten--I was half wakened up
by sounds in the day nursery next door. I heard one or two people
talking, and a low sound, as if some one were crying, but I was so
sleepy that I couldn't make up my mind to wake up to hear more, but for
long after that it seemed to me I heard moving about, and a sort of
bustle going on. Only it was all faint and confused-- I dreamt, or
thought I dreamt, that some one stood by the side of my bed crying, but
when I half opened my eyes, there was no one to be seen by the tiny
light of the little night lamp that mother always let us burn in our
room. By the next morning I had forgotten all I had heard, and very
likely if I had never had any explanation of it, it would not have come
into my mind again.
But the explanation came only too soon. We woke early that morning--we
generally did--but we were used to lie still till Pierson came to us.
But she had been so kind the night before that we felt bolder than
usual, and after having talked in a whisper to each other for some time,
and hearing no sound whatever from her room, we decided that she must
have overslept herself and that she would not be vexed if we woke her.
So "Pierson! Pierson!!" we called out, softly at first, then louder. But
there was no answer, so Tom, whose cot was nearest the door, jumped up
and ran to her room. In a moment he was back again--his face looking
quite queer.
"What is the matter, Tom?" I exclaimed.
"She's not there," he cried, "and she's not been there all night. Her
bed isn't unmade."
I sat up in alarm.
"Oh dear!" I said. "I do believe she's gone away, and that was the noise
I heard. Oh I do believe that horrid Mrs. Partridge has made Uncle send
her away."
But almost before the words were out of my mouth we heard some one
coming up-stairs.
"Quick, Tom," I said, and in his hurry Tom clambered into my bed, and I
hid him under the clothes.
Stump, stump-- I think I forgot to tell you that Mrs. Partridge was
rather lame from rheumatism, and sometimes used a stick--stump, stump,
in she came, feeling rather cross, no doubt, at having had to get up so
much earlier than usual.
"Good morning, my dears," she said.
"Good morning, Mrs. Partridge," I replied, feeling very brave and
determined.
"I have come all the way up-stairs to tell you that you must be very
good indeed to-day, and not give any trouble, for your nurse, Pierson,
has had to go away. A friend from her home came to fetch her late last
night, because her mother was dying. So she left at once, to catch the
first train this morning. Of course I couldn't have had the house
disturbed at four or five o'clock in the morning and----"
"But she'll come back again--she'll come back again in a few days, won't
she?" said Tom, in his anxiety forgetting where he was, and popping up
his round head from under the clothes.
Mrs. Partridge hesitated.
"I can't say----" she was beginning when she suddenly perceived that Tom
was not in his own quarters. "Master Tom," she exclaimed. "What business
have you in your sister's cot? What tricks to be sure--deary me, deary
me! Go back to your own bed, sir, at once."
Tom showed no inclination to move.
"Yes, Tom," I said, and these first words, I think, astonished Mrs.
Partridge very much. "Yes, Tom, go back to your own bed." Tom looked at
me in surprise, but prepared to obey me, nevertheless. "But," I added,
turning fiercely to Mrs. Partridge, "it isn't to please _you_ he should
get into his own bed--it's only because mother told us always to stay
quiet in the morning before Pierson came to dress us, and we mean to do
everything mother told us."
"And I should like to know what your mother would say to hearing you
talk like that?" said Mrs. Partridge. "It's not at all like a pretty
behaved young lady to fly into such tempers to any one as kind as can be
to you--your uncle should be told of it, but I've never been one to make
mischief. Now you must all three lie still and make no noise, till Sarah
can find time to come up and dress you."
"I want to det up now," said Racey undauntedly. "I'se been awake never
so long."
"You can't get up now, my dear," said Mrs. Partridge. "The house has
been upset enough already--the whole work can't be stopped to get you up
and for my part I don't hold with such early gettings up, and wanting
your breakfasts so ridiculous soon."
She turned and left the room, and for a minute or two none of us spoke.
Then Tom, who after all had not decamped to his own quarters, having
stopped short in excitement at my speech to Mrs. Partridge, which had
also had the effect of putting him out of her head--Tom gave me a push,
and said inquiringly,
"Audrey?"
"Well, Tom?"--I dare say I spoke impatiently.
"Audrey, speak. What are you thinking?"
"I don't know what I'm thinking," I said. "At least I do, but I think
I'd better not say it."
"Why not?" said Tom.
"Because it's no good."
"Audrey," said Tom again, "you're rather cross, and I'm _so_ unhappy."
"Oh, _dear_ Tom," I said, "don't speak like that. It's just because I
love you so, and I can't bear you to be unhappy, that I'm cross."
"_I'm_ unhappy too," said Racey's high-pitched little voice from the
corner of the room. "I'm vrezy unhappy, and I do so want to det up."
A sudden idea struck me. "You shall get up," I said. "I'm sure mother
never would have wanted us to stay in bed hours after we were awake.
Jump up, Racey, and Tom too; _I_'ll dress you."
[Illustration: For his hair was very tuggy this morning.]
Up jumped both boys with the greatest delight, and we set to work. There
was no hot water! That we had quite forgotten, and it was too cold to
wash properly without it, even though we always had a cold bath too.
Racey made rather a fuss, but Tom was very good, and at last we got the
dressing finished without any worse misfortunes than the breaking of
Tom's comb, for his hair was very tuggy this morning, and the
spilling a great lot of water on the floor. This last catastrophe
troubled us very little, for the carpet was not very new or pretty, but
we were sorry about the comb, as now that Pierson was away we did not
know to whom to apply for a new one! Just as I was telling the boys to
go into the day nursery and warm themselves at the fire, forgetting that
no one had come to make it, a knock came to the door and in marched
Sarah, looking decidedly cross. Her face cleared, however, when she saw
us all dressed.
"So you've been and dressed yourselves," she said. "Well, that's very
clever of you, though I don't know what Mrs. Partridge will say."
But it was something for Sarah to be pleased, and she set to work to
make the fire with good-will, for we were very cold and our hands were
blue and red.
We were helping Sarah to the best of our ability, when stump, stump,
up-stairs again came Mrs. Partridge, and oh, how cross she was when she
saw that her orders had been disobeyed; only, fortunately, it all fell
on me. I was a naughty disobedient child--it was all I that made my
brothers naughty--it was high time some one took me in hand, that was
clear. What she meant by this last remark I did not quite understand,
and I dare say that was a good thing, for if I had thought it was any
reflection on _mother_, I should have answered in a way which would not
have made Mrs. Partridge think any better of my temper.
As it was, I answered nothing. If I had spoken at all I should have
burst out crying, and that I was determined Mrs. Partridge should not
see me do. So when she was tired of scolding she went away, and Sarah,
who had made an excuse of fetching our breakfast to get out of the way,
came back again in a few minutes with the tray.
I was too angry and unhappy to eat, but Tom and Racey, though looking
somewhat soberer than usual, ate with a good appetite. Towards the end
of breakfast I found I had no handkerchief, and I jumped up and went to
the chest of drawers in the other room to fetch one. There a great
surprise met me. Pinned to the top handkerchief of the little pile was a
note addressed to me, "Miss Audrey Gower." I knew at once what it was.
It was from poor Pierson--her only way of saying good-bye. Though I was
nearly nine years old I could not read writing very well, and this
Pierson knew, for she had written it very large and plain. Poor thing,
it must have taken her a good while, and late at night, too, when she
had all her packing to do. I tore open the envelope. This was the
little letter. Oh, how pleased I was to see it!
"MY DEAR MISS AUDREY, AND MY DEAR LITTLE BOYS,--I am half
broken-hearted to go away like this and leave you with strangers,
but what can I do? My poor mother is dying, and begging for me to
come. I would promise to come back for a week or two any way, but
I am afraid Mrs. Partridge will make your uncle think it better
not. But I beg you, dear Miss Audrey, to try to write to me, and
tell me how you all are, and do not be afraid to say if you are
unhappy, for I would try to do something; and any way I could
write to your mamma.
"Your faithful nurse,
"ESTHER PIERSON."
I read it over two or three times. Then I took it into the nursery where
the boys were calling for me, and read it over again, word by word, to
Tom. He listened with his big eyes staring up at me.
"How nice of Pierson," he said at the end. "Audrey, won't you write and
tell her how _horrid_ Mrs. Partridge has been?"
"We must think about it," I said, solemnly.
"Would you know how to _dreck_" (he meant direct) "the letter?"
continued Tom.
I hadn't thought of that; and my face fell. But Pierson had had more
foresight than I had supposed.
"Cray was the name of the village--near--near--oh, I can't remember near
where," I was saying, when Tom, who had been examining the letter with
great attention, exclaimed, "Audrey, there's more writing here on the
other side that you haven't seen--C. R.--I believe it's the 'drecktion."
And so it was.
"ESTHER PIERSON,
_Flure's Cottage_,
_Cray_,
_Near Coppleswade_.
is my adress," Pierson had added. Of course there was only one _d_ in
"address."
"What a good thing, isn't it?" said Tom. But just then we heard some one
coming up-stairs. In a fright I stuffed the letter into the front of my
dress; it was the first time in my life I had ever had anything to
conceal, and I felt at a loss how to do it. The steps turned out to be
Sarah's.
"Miss Audrey," she said. "You've to go down-stairs, please, to your
uncle's study. He wants to see you before he goes out, and he's in a
great hurry."
"Me alone?" I said.
"Yes, Miss; nothing was said about the young gentlemen; and I'm sure,"
she added, in a lower tone, "I'm sure Mrs. Partridge has been making
mischief. But never you mind, Miss, speak up for yourself."
I did not answer, but ran quickly down-stairs.
I was not the least afraid, but I had very bitter feelings in my heart.
Why should I be called naughty, and disobedient, and impertinent, and
all that, for the first time in my life? I knew I had sometimes a rather
cross temper, but when mother had spoken to me about it, I had always
felt sorry, and wished to be better. And since we had come to London, I
had really tried to be good, and to carry out what mother had said about
making the boys happy, and being kind to them. No one had any right to
begin scolding me when I had _not_ been naughty. This was what I was
saying to myself as I ran down-stairs, and though I was not afraid, yet
the feeling of Pierson's letter was a great comfort to me. I was not
altogether friendless.
When I knocked at the study door, Uncle Geoff called out, "Come in," at
once. He was standing on the hearth-rug, all ready--his coat buttoned up
to the top--to go out. I saw at once that he was quite different from
the day before.
"Audrey," he said, as soon as he saw me, "I do not want to be severe or
harsh to you, but it is necessary you should understand me. And it is
better you should do so at once. I wish to be kind to you, as kind as I
can be, but you, on your side, my little girl, must do your part, and
that part is _perfect obedience_. I am very little at home, as you know,
and I cannot constantly direct you and the boys myself, but in my
absence you must obey Mrs. Partridge, who is very kind, and good, and
knows what is right for children. It is unfortunate that your nurse has
had to leave so suddenly, though, if it was _she_ that put it into your
mind to disobey Mrs. Partridge, it is better she has gone. Now you
understand me-- I expect that you will do your best to-day to be good
and obedient, and to give as little trouble as you can."
He turned as if to leave the room--he did not seem to expect an answer.
Words were burning on my lips-- I wanted to ask him if he wished us to
listen to unkind remarks on mother, and unkind reproaches for the
trouble our coming had given, from Mrs. Partridge, who he said was so
good. I wanted to tell him that we _had_ tried to be good, hard as it
was on us to be sent suddenly among strangers-- I wanted to tell him
that I wished to do _everything_ mother had said, that I wished to
please him, and to love him, but when I looked up at his face, and saw
the stern expression it had, I felt it was no use, and I too turned
away.
But just at the door Uncle Geoff stopped and looked back. I suppose the
hard set look of unhappiness on my childish face touched him. He turned,
and stooping down put his arm round me, and kissed me.
"Don't look so miserable, Audrey," he said. "_That_ is not what I wish
at all." I looked up at him again--his face looked ever so much kinder.
I was on the point of saying some nice words, like "Uncle Geoff, I do
want to be good," or something of that sort, which perhaps would have
helped to make him find out that Mrs. Partridge was really not managing
us as he wished, when suddenly I felt the paper--Pierson's letter I
mean--rustle a little under the pressure of his hand. I felt my face
grow red. Suppose he found the letter and took it away? I was so little
accustomed to conceal anything that I felt quite guilty, and in my fear
I drew away a little from his arm. He said nothing, but he must have
been chilled, for he took away his arm, and turned to go, and as he left
the room, I was almost sure that I heard him say in a half whisper,
"Strange child! I am afraid we shall have trouble with her."
[Illustration]