WE TRY TO BE GOOD.
"Our sister is quite in her glory,
When telling us nice little tales."
[Illustration: He was not a very amusing person.]
As ill-luck would have it, this day also was wet and dreary. I don't
know that Mrs. Partridge or Sarah regretted it, for if it had been fine
one of the servants would have had to take us out for a walk. But we
were very sorry. Anything would have been better than another long
dreary day up in the dull nursery. Still we had some variety to-day, for
our tutor came to give us our first lesson, which took up two hours. He
was not a very amusing person; he was very thin and tired-looking, but
he was perfectly gentle, so we liked him well enough. We liked him too
for another reason. He said that we were very well on for our ages; and
as mother had always taught us herself, we felt quite pleased for him to
say so. He left us some lessons to do for the next day, but not much.
Long before the afternoon was half over we had finished them, and were
wondering whatever we could get to do to help us through all the hours
that still remained. This was not a day for Uncle Geoff seeing people in
his house, so we had not even the fun of listening to the carriages
stopping, and the bell ringing, and trying to peep at the ladies and
gentlemen getting out. Sarah was rather kind--she came in and out to see
us as often as she could, but of course she had a great deal of work to
do, and she said Mrs. Partridge made her work even harder than she
needed. Mrs. Partridge did not come up-stairs again herself all day, and
of that we were very glad-- I suppose she found the stairs too much for
her.
Before the end of that afternoon, I think we had changed our minds about
wishing we might have no nurse. Even a rather cross nurse would have
been better than none at all. It was very tiresome every time we wanted
anything to have to fetch it ourselves, or to have to run out to the
landing and stand there till Sarah happened to come in sight. There was
no bell in the nursery, at least it was broken, but even if it hadn't
been, we shouldn't have dared to ring it. And two buttons came off
Racey's boot--both off the same boot, just out of tiresomeness--and he
couldn't keep it on properly, and he had to wear cloth boots in the
house, because the winter before he had had such bad chilblains, so I
had to try to sew them on, and you don't know how I pricked my fingers!
I do think there is nothing so horrible as sewing on boot buttons.
And then when Tom and I were doing our writing for Mr. Lingard--that was
our tutor--for the next day, Tom would pull the ink close over to him,
and I pulled it back to me, and we both got cross, and the end of it was
that the ink was all spilt over the table; and oh! it made such a big
black pool, and then little streams of it began running to the edge, and
would have fallen on to the carpet.
"Oh," said Tom, "I'll wipe it up;" and up he jumped to fetch something
to wipe it with, and before I could see what he was about, what do you
think he had done? He had seized my Lady Florimel's opera cloak, which
was lying on a chair--of course it _shouldn't_ have been lying about, I
know--and scrubbed up the ink with it all in a minute. The cloak was
black silk outside, so he thought it was just a piece of black stuff
lying about--but inside it was lovely pale pink, and of course it was
quite spoilt. I was so vexed that I began to cry, and then Tom was
dreadfully sorry, and came and hugged and kissed me, and so we made
friends again, and the ink spilling sent away our quarrelling any way.
And perhaps it was better for Lady Florimel's cloak to be spoilt, than
for the carpet, for then we should have had a very great scolding from
Mrs. Partridge. It didn't matter for the table, as it just had an
oilcloth cover that would not stain. And when we had made friends again,
we all climbed up on to the window-sill, and began to wonder what we
should do.
"Tom," said Racey, pressing his face flat against the window, so as to
see out better, "Tom, have you seen the air-garden?"
"The air-garden," repeated Tom, "what do you mean?"
"He means that little sticking out glass place," I explained, "with
flowers and plants in--there, further down on the other side."
"A preservatory," said Tom, rather contemptuously, "why, who would think
what you meant, if you say a' air-garden?"
"_I_ zink it's a much prettier name than 'servatory," said Racey
indignantly.
I began to be afraid of getting into quarrelling again just from having
nothing to do; the big clock on the stair which we could hear from the
nursery, had struck only three a few minutes before, and there was still
a whole hour to tea. The boys were really tired of all their toys, and
I didn't care to play with my dolls. The misfortune to Lady Florimel's
cloak had put me out of conceit of them for the present.
"Let's tell each other stories," I said.
"Don't know none," said Tom.
"Well, make them up," said I.
"I know lots," remarked Racey.
"Well, you begin then," said I.
"Oh no," objected Tom, "Racey's stories are _so_ silly. You tell us one,
Audrey, and I'll think of one while you are telling it."
"Thank you--how much would you listen to mine, if you were making one
yourself all the time?"
"Oh but I _would_ listen--_dear_ Audrey, your stories are always so
nice," said Tom, coaxingly; but Racey was so offended at Tom saying his
stories were stupid, that he wouldn't speak at all.
"Well, I'll tell one if you'll let Racey tell one too. I don't think his
are stupid at all. And if you can think of one, you can tell yours too.
Let's all be quiet for five minutes to think of them."
"Mine's all ready," said Racey. "It's about a----"
"Hush, you're not to tell till it's your turn," said Tom sharply, so
that Racey looked offended again; and I was in such a hurry to stop
their quarrelling, that I had to begin my story before I had got it
half settled. I mean before I had thought quite how to tell it rightly,
for the story itself was true, as mother had told it me herself.
"Tom and Racey," I said, "I don't think you ever heard the story I am
going to tell you. Mother told it to me one day when you weren't in the
room. It is about mother's godmother when she was a little girl."
"Mother's godmother's little girl," said Tom, looking rather puzzled.
"No, of course not, you stupid boy," said I, at which Tom looked
offended. It seemed as if we couldn't get out of the way of quarrelling
that afternoon, and the minute I had said it, I was sorry. "Oh, dear
Tom, don't be vexed. I didn't mean to call you stupid," I said, quickly.
"I'll tell you how I mean. Mother had a godmother, you know, just like
you have Uncle Geoff for your godfather. And mother was called after her
godmother, whose name was like mother's of course, as she was called
after her. Well, this godmother was partly French and partly English,
and of course when she was young, before she was grown up, she was a
little girl, just like everybody else."
"Except boys," said Tom very seriously. He was anxious to show me that
he was giving his whole attention. "When men are little they're boys,
not girls."
"Of course," I said again. "Well, any way, you see now how I mean--this
lady, Madame----I forget her last name, it's very hard to say, I'll call
her Marie, for that was her first name, and of course when she was
little she wasn't called Madame----, well when she was little, she was
taken for a visit to her grandmother, who lived in France."
"Didn't she live in France herself?" said Tom; "I thought you said she
was French."
"She was partly French--not all. No, I don't think she lived in France.
They took her there for a visit, so she couldn't have been living there.
She went to stay with her grandmother, I told you, and her grandmother
lived in a queer old town, that was as old as--as old as--" I stopped to
think of the oldest thing I knew.
"As old as old," suggested Tom.
"As old as twenty grandmothers, all top of each 'nother," said Racey.
This was thought very witty, and we spent a minute or two in laughing at
it. Then I started again. "Well, never mind how old it was, any way it
was very old, for mother told me she had once been there herself, and
the churches and houses were all like old castles, the walls were so
thick, and the stones they were made of so grey and worn-looking. And in
this old town once a year, there was a great, great, big fair--you know
what I mean, boys--people used to come from ever so far, bringing things
to sell, and all the biggest streets were set out with little wooden
shops, with all the things in. There were even Turkish and Chinese
people selling things; and all the people in the town, and the country
people round about, used to look forward all the year to the things they
would buy at this fair. It wasn't all for buying though; there were lots
of show things, animals you know, shows of lions and tigers, and snakes
and monkeys, and other shows, like circuses--ladies and gentlemen all
dressed up, and even little children riding round and round on beautiful
horses, and sometimes dancing up in the air on ropes. And there were
music places, and lots of shops too, where you could get nice things to
eat--altogether it was very nice. Marie used to go out for a walk every
day with her nurse, and she always pulled and pulled till she came the
way to where the fair was. But her grandmother told the nurse she must
never take Marie to the fair without _her_, because there were sometimes
such crowds and crowds of people, that the grandmother was afraid Marie
might get hurt some way. Marie cried the day her grandmother said that,
because she wanted very much to go to spend some money that some one had
sent her, or given her; perhaps her father had sent it her in a letter
for her birthday--I think that was it. She was only five years old,
quite a little girl, so it was no wonder she cried. And so her
grandmother promised she would take her the next day if it was fine; and
it was fine, so Marie set off to the fair with her grandmother, and her
nurse walked behind. It must have been a _very_ funny place mother told
me, for besides all the Turkey people, and Chinese, and Spanish, and all
that, there were all the funny dresses of the country people themselves.
The women had high caps, all stuck up with wires, and bright coloured
skirts, and velvet bodies. I know what they were like, because mother
had a doll once that her godmother had sent her dressed that way, and
mother remembered it quite. I wish we could see a picture of that fair
now, don't you, Tom? how funny it would be, and even that little Marie's
dress would look funny and old-fashioned now!"
"What would it be like?" said Tom.
"I don't know. I dare say it would be something like the little tiny
pictures there used to be in the drawing-room, hanging up in velvet
cases on the wall--mini--something mother called them, of papa's aunts
when they were little. They had white frocks, and blue sashes, tied
right under their arms, and their hair all curling."
"Oh yes, I remember," said Tom. "Go on, Audrey, I can fancy Marie quite
well."
"Well, she went trotting along beside her grandmother, and she was very
pleased, because she had her money to spend, and she was a very pretty
little girl, so everybody looked at her. And she was very nicely
dressed, and her hair was beautiful; I was forgetting that, for it has
to do with the story--long, long curls of bright light hair down her
back. And she bought with her money a very pretty little basket with
roses painted outside; and after a while, when they had looked at all
the shops, her grandmother thought it was time to go home. They had to
pass through a very crowded place, where a lot of people were standing
to see some kind of show, and Marie's grandmother said to the nurse,
'Wait a minute, the crowd will be going, for the show is just over.' So
the nurse, who had Marie's hand, stepped back just a little bit to wait,
and Marie, seeing her grandmother just in front pulled away from the
nurse to get beside her grandmother. But just then--they were standing
like at the edge of the crowd, you know--Marie caught sight of a funnily
dressed up dog, that a man had on a table, and that he was making bow
to the people that passed. Meaning to come back in a moment, Marie
darted away to see the dog, and just for a little while the nurse didn't
miss her, thinking she was with her grandmother, for she had said when
she pulled away her hand, 'I want to go to grandmother,' and of course
her grandmother didn't miss her, thinking she was behind with the nurse.
Marie was so pleased with the dog that she stood for a minute or two
looking at it, and laughing to herself at its tricks. And then she heard
some one saying to her, in French of course--she could speak both French
and English--'Oh, what pretty hair the young lady has! Oh, what a
charming young lady!' And when she turned round she saw the person that
was speaking to her was a gipsy-looking girl--of course Marie was too
little to know that she was gipsy-looking--but she remembered that she
had very dark hair and eyes, and a bright scarlet dress, and shiny gold
things about her head. She must have been one of the rope-dancing
players, mother told me, for afterwards her grandmother noticed that
their tent was close by the dancing dog place. Little Marie looked up at
the girl without speaking. Then the girl said to her, 'I have two little
dogs that dance much better than that. Will the young lady come with me
to see them?'
"She held out her hand, but Marie would not take her hand, because she
thought it was dirty. She wanted dreadfully to see the two dogs though,
so she said to the girl, 'You show me where, and I'll come, and then you
must take me back to my grandmother.'
"'Oh yes,' said the girl, 'you come after me, and then, when you've seen
the dogs, I'll take you back to your grandmother.'
"So the girl turned another way and went in among the tents, like at the
back of them, and Marie went after her. The girl walked quick, but she
kept looking back to see if Marie was coming. Marie was coming as fast
as she could, when all of a sudden, close to her it seemed, she heard
the most awful big noise she had ever heard in her life; a roar, so
dreadfully loud, that it seemed to shake the ground like thunder. Marie
knew what it was, for when she had been at the fair before, alone with
her nurse, she had heard it, though never so near, and her nurse had
told her it was the lion, the great big lion they had in the animal show
place."
"Oh Audrey," Racey interrupted, coming close up to me and cuddling his
face into my shoulder, "don't tell stories about lions. It does so
f'ighten me."
"Lubbish," said Tom, "do go on, Audrey. It's lovely." (Why Tom always
said "lubbish" for "rubbish" I'm sure I don't know, for he could say his
_r_'s well enough.)
"Well," I went on, "Marie was no braver than Racey, for when she heard
this terrible roar, she really thought the lion was coming after her,
and she turned and ran, as fast as ever her feet could go, right the
other way. She turned so suddenly and ran so fast, that when the gipsy
girl turned round to look for her, she was out of sight."
"Was the gipsy vexed?" asked Tom.
"Of course she was."
"But it was very kind of her to say she would show Marie her two little
dogs. Wasn't she a kind girl?"
"No, not really. Marie's grandmother told her afterwards that no doubt
the girl had wanted to steal her, and that her people would have made
Marie into a rope-dancing girl, because you see she was so pretty, and
had such beautiful hair. And they would have taken her far away to other
countries, and she was so little that after a while she would have
forgotten her friends very likely, and her father and mother would never
have seen her again. Just think what a difference it would have made if
the lion hadn't roared just that minute! Marie would very likely have
grown up a poor dancing girl, and nobody would ever have known who she
was. And she would never have been mother's godmother, so I wouldn't
ever have been telling you this story."
"How queer!" said Tom, consideringly. "All just because of the lion's
roar. But please go on, Audrey. Where did Marie run to?"
"Zes, where did she zun to?" said Racey.
"You're a parrot, Racey. I don't believe you've been listening."
"I has," said Racey, indignantly.
"Well, she ran and ran, till she got quite out of the fair, and in among
a lot of streets, where she didn't know her way a bit. She did know some
of the big streets close to her grandmother's house a little, but these
little narrow streets she didn't know one bit; and when she stopped,
after running till she was quite out of breath, she didn't know how to
go home at all. She was still frightened, she fancied perhaps the lion
was running after her, and she looked about to see where she could go to
be safe out of his way. Near to where she was she noticed a door open;
she went up and peeped in. It was a kitchen, and in this kitchen an old
woman was sitting with a pillow--not a pillow like what we have in bed,
you know--but a hard cushion, more like a footstool, that's what they
call a lace pillow--with a pillow before her, making lace. She looked a
nice old woman, and the room seemed clean, and there were flowers in the
window, so Marie peeped in a little further, and at last got in
altogether, and stood in the doorway. The old woman looked up to see
what it was that was in her light, and when she saw it was a little
girl, she said, 'Good morning, miss,' to her very nicely, and asked her
what she wanted. Marie said, 'Good morning, madame,' to her, quite
nicely too, and then she said, still looking frightened--
"'Oh it's the lion; I ran away from the lion, because I thought he was
going to eat me up.'
"The old woman quite understood, for of course she knew about the fair
and the animals that were there, and she saw that the little girl must
have strayed away from her friends. So she made Marie come in, and she
gave her a little chair to sit on, and some milk to drink, and then she
asked her her name, to try to find out who she was, only unfortunately
Marie didn't know any of her name except just 'Marie.'
"'Dear me,' said the old woman, 'that won't do, there's such lots of
little Maries.'
"But she went on questioning her till she found that Marie was staying
with her grandmother, that she had come over the sea to stay with her,
and that her grandmother had a parrot, whose cage hung out of the
window, and who talked to the people passing in the street, and that he
called her grandmother's maid, 'Babette, Ba-Ba-bette.' And when Marie
said that, the old woman quite jumped.
"'To be sure, to be sure,' she said. 'I know who is the young lady's
grandmother;' and up she got, and put away her lace, and took Marie by
the hand to lead her home. Marie was just a little frightened at first
to go out into the street again, for fear the lion should be coming that
way; but the old woman told her she was sure he wouldn't be, and
_really_, you know, though Marie didn't know it, she had far more reason
to be afraid of the gipsy girl than of the poor lion, who had only been
roaring to amuse himself in his cage. But they got on quite well through
the streets, and just as they came to the corner near where was Marie's
grandmother's house, there they saw her grandmother and the nurse, and
Babette behind them, and the cook behind her, and the gardener last of
all, all coming hurry-scurrying out of the house, all to go different
ways to look for Marie. Her grandmother had come home, you see, thinking
_perhaps_ Marie had found her way there; but she and the nurse were most
dreadfully frightened, and you can fancy how delighted they were when
they found her. Only all the time of the fair after that, Marie's
grandmother would not let her go out except in the garden, which was a
big one though, for fear the gipsy dancing girl should try to steal her
again."
"But she _didn't_?" said Racey, drawing a long breath.
"No, of course she didn't. If she had, I couldn't have told you the
story."
"Oh I'm _so_ glad she didn't," said Racey again. "Oh Audrey, I'm _so_
glad nobody stolened her, and that no lionds eated her. Oh, it makes me
s'iver to think of dipsies and lionds."
"You little stupid," said Tom. Really he was very tiresome about teasing
poor Racey sometimes.
"You're not to tease him, Tom," I said; "and now it's your turn to tell
a story."
"Well," said Tom, "it's about a boy that was dedfully frightened of
li--"
"Oh Audrey, he's going to make up a' ugly story about me," said Racey,
beseechingly.
"No, no, I'm not," said Tom, "I was only teasing. My story's very nice,
but it's very short. Once there was a bird that lived in a
garden--Pierson told me this story--but when it came winter the bird
went away to some place where it was always summer. I _think_, but I'm
not quite sure--I _think_ the bird went to the sun, Pierson said."
"Oh no, it couldn't be that. The sun's much too far away. I've heard
about those birds. They don't go to the sun, they go to countries at the
other side of the world, where the sun always shines, that's what you're
thinking of, Tom."
"Well, perhaps that was it," said Tom, only half satisfied, "though it
would be much nicer to say they went to the sun. Well, this bird had a
nest in the garden, and there was a girl that lived in the garden--I
mean in the house where the garden was--that used to look at the birds,
'cause she liked them very much. And she liked this bird best, 'cause
its nest was just under her window, and she heard it singing in the
morning. And when it began to come winter she knew the bird would go
away, so what do you think she did? She got it catched one day, and she
tied a very weeny, weeny ribbon under its wing, some way that it
couldn't come undone, and then she let it go. And soon it went away to
that other country, and the winter came. And the girl was very ill that
winter. I don't know if it was measles she had," said Tom, looking very
wise, "but I should think it was. And they thought she was going to die
after the winter was gone. And she kept wishing the birds would come
back, 'cause she thought she'd die before they comed. But at last one
morning she heard a little squeaking--no I don't mean squeaking--I mean
chirping, just outside her window, and she called the servants, and told
them she was sure her bird had come back, and they must catch it. And
her nurse catched it some way, and brought it to her, and what do you
think? when she looked under its wing, there was the weeny ribbon she
had tied. It was the very same bird. Wasn't it clever to know to come
back to the very same _window_ even? It's quite true, Pierson knowed the
girl."
"And did she die?" I asked Tom.
"Oh no; she was so glad the bird had come back, that she jumped out of
bed, and got quite well that very minute."
"That very minute, Tom," I said; "she couldn't get well all in a
minute."
"Oh, but she just did; and if you don't believe it, you needn't. Pierson
knowed her. _I_ think it's a very nice story, not frightening at all."
"Yes, it's very nice," I said. "Thank you, Tom. Now, Racey, it's your
turn."
[Illustration]