MISS GOLDY-HAIR.
"I thought at first sight that she must be a fairy."
No, I can hardly say we "_ran_" off. There were so many persons on the
pavement, that three, even very small people, could not walk along all
abreast, without some difficulty. Particularly three small people like
us who were accustomed to country lanes without any footpath at all, or
high roads where the only fellow-passengers whose way we had to get out
of were droves of nice silly sheep, or flocks of geese driven home from
the market. We knew nothing of keeping to the right hand, and thought
the passers-by were very rude and unkind when they jostled us, as indeed
they could hardly help doing. For as for letting go of each other's
hands _that_ we never for an instant thought of.
We were glad to get out of the great crowded, brightly-lighted street,
though had we been less in a hurry to get home, we should have greatly
enjoyed standing and looking in at the shop-windows, more even than by
daylight, and as it was, I was obliged two or three times to tug pretty
hard at Tom and Racey to get them away from some very tempting one. At
last however--it _did_ seem as if we had been in the big street rather
longer turning back from the chemist's than going there--afterwards I
remembered this--at last we found ourselves in what we believed to be
the same, rather narrow, darkish street where we had passed the
pillar-post.
"Which side is the pillar?" I said to Tom. "I'm sure it was on this side
and now I don't see it."
Tom stared about him.
"It must be a little further on," he said.
But further on it was not to be seen, and we began to feel perfectly
puzzled. The street was quite a short one--we soon came to the end,
where, right and left, it ran into a wider one, quiet and rather dark
too--that is to say, compared with the great street of shops where we
had just been. We stood at the corner looking about us--
"This is our street--it must be," I said; "but what _can_ have become of
the letter-box in the little street?"
Tom could say nothing, he was as puzzled as I. We walked on slowly, more
because we did not know what else to do, than for any other reason.
Going home without posting the letter, for which we had run such risks,
was not to be thought of. Suddenly Tom gave a little scream, and would
have darted across the street had I not kept tight hold of him.
"Tom, what is the matter? Where are you going?" I said.
Tom wriggled and pulled.
"Let me go, Audrey," he said. "_There's_ one--don't you see--across the
street. Let me go, to be sure it's a proper one like the other."
"One" meant another pillar-post. I wouldn't let go of Tom, but we all
went across together to examine it. It was just like the one that had
suddenly disappeared from the little street, and it took a great weight
off me when I had dropped my letter into it.
"It is just as if they had wheeled it across from the street
opposite--isn't it?" I said to Tom.
But as there were no wheels, and as the pillar seemed stuck in the
ground as firm as a rock, we could not explain the mystery.
"Now," said I, "let's run across again and find our house. It must be
just about opposite."
We crossed the street and went along slowly, peeping at every house we
passed in search of some sign by which we would know it. We had left the
door the tiniest little bit ajar you will remember--and two or three
times when we saw a house which we fancied looked just like Uncle
Geoff's, we went up the steps and gently pushed to see if the door was
open. But no--none of them were, and beginning to be really frightened
we returned to the pavement and considered what we should do.
"I don't understand it," I said, "we _must_ have passed it. It wasn't
above five or six houses from the street we turned, down, where the
pillar-post was."
"But, Audrey," said Tom, "p'raps we came up another street by mistake,
'cause you know we couldn't find the pillar coming back. Let's go back a
little and see if we don't come to the street where _it_ is, and then
we'll know."
It seemed the only thing to do--it was quite, _quite_ dark of course by
now--the only light was from the gas-lamps, which in this street did not
seem very bright. It was very cold--we were all three beginning to
shiver, because, you see, running out as we thought just for five
minutes we had not wrapped up very warmly. It was worst for the boys,
who had nothing besides the sailor suits they always wore, except their
comforters and caps, though I had my jacket. And to add to our troubles
it began to rain, a miserable, fine, cold rain, which seemed to freeze
as well as to wet us. I was so unhappy that it was all I could do not to
cry.
"The boys will get cold," I said to myself. "And mother said we must be
very careful of cold for Tom this winter as he had the measles so badly.
Oh dear, what _shall_ we do! If I could see anybody, I would ask them to
help us to find the way back to Uncle Geoff's."
But just then there was no one in sight, and I was thinking whether it
would not be best to try to find our way back to the friendly chemist
and ask him to help us, when Tom called out suddenly:
"Audrey, we've got on the wrong side of the street. Look, the next house
is the one with what Racey calls an air-garden."
I looked and saw the little glass conservatory he pointed out. It
belonged to the house next to the one we were passing. I didn't feel
satisfied-- I couldn't see how we could have got on the wrong side of
the street, for we had certainly kept in a right _direction_, but Tom
was so sure, I didn't like to contradict him. And he pulled Racey and
me across the street almost before I had time to consider.
"Our house is almost opposite the one with the air-garden," he said,
"just a little bit further along. Yes, this one _must_ be it." He
hurried us up the steps and when we got to the front door gave it a
little push. It yielded--it was open.
"You see," said Tom triumphantly, "you see I was right, Audrey."
But almost before he had said the words, Racey pulled us back.
"This _idn't_ our house," he said, "it tannot be. Look, Audrey; look,
Tom, this house has a' air-garden too."
He pointed above our heads, and looking up, Tom and I saw what in our
hurried crossing the street we had not noticed--there was a conservatory
on the first floor just like the one opposite!
"Come back, come back," I said. "This isn't our house. Perhaps the
people will be angry with us for pushing the door open."
But it was too late--the door had been a little open before we touched
it, for there were people standing in the hall just inside, and one of
them, an errand boy, was coming out, when the push Tom had given caught
their attention. The door was pulled wide open from the inside and we
saw plainly right into the brightly-lighted hall. A man-servant came
forward to see who we were--or what we were doing.
"Now get off the steps you there," he said roughly. "My lady can't have
beggars loitering about."
Frightened as we were, Tom's indignation could not be kept down.
"We're _not_ beggars, you rude man," he cried, "we thought this was our
house, and--and--" he could say no more, poor little boy--for all his
manliness he was only a very little boy, you know--the tears would not
be kept back any longer, he burst out sobbing, and immediately he heard
Tom's crying Racey of course began too. I did not know what to do-- I
threw my arms round them and tried to comfort them. "Don't cry, dears,"
I said, "we'll go back to the chemist's, and he'll show us the way home.
And nobody shall scold _you_, I don't care what they say to me."
The man-servant was still standing holding the door; he seemed on the
point of shutting it, but I suppose something in our way of speaking,
though he could not clearly see how we were dressed, had made him begin
to think he had been mistaken, and he stared at us curiously. I think
too, for he wasn't an unkind man, he felt sorry to hear the boys crying
so. The bustle on the steps caught the attention of the other person in
the hall--who had been speaking to the errand-boy when we came up,
though we had not noticed her. A voice, which even at that moment I
fancied I had heard before, stopped us as we were turning away.
"What is the matter, James?" it said. "Is it some poor children on the
steps? Don't be rough to them. I'd like to see what they want."
Then she came forward and stood right in our sight, though even now she
couldn't see us well, as we were outside in the dark, you know. We all
looked at her, and for a minute we felt too surprised to speak. It was
the young lady in the black dress with the pretty goldy hair that had
come one day to our house. We all knew her again--she looked sweeter and
prettier than ever, with a nice grave sort of kindness in her face that
I think children love even more than smiles and merriness. We all knew
her again, but Racey was the first to speak. He pulled himself out of my
arms--I didn't hold him back--and he rushed to the young lady and caught
hold of her almost as if she had been mother.
"Oh please, please take care of us," he cried, hiding his fair, curly
head in her black skirt, "we're lostened. Muzzie's done away, you know,
and we don't like being at London at all."
The young lady for half a moment looked perfectly puzzled. Then a light
broke over her face. She lifted Racey up in her arms, and pressing her
face against his in a sort of kissing way, just almost as mother herself
would have done, she came forward quite close to Tom and me, still on
the steps in the rain, and spoke to us.
"My poor little people," she said, "you must be quite wet. I know who
you are-- I remember. Come in--come in out of the cold, and tell me all
about it."
My first wish was just to beg her to tell us the way to Uncle Geoff's
house and to hurry off as fast as we could. I was beginning to be so
terribly frightened as to what would happen when we _did_ get back. But
her voice was so kind, and it was _so_ cold outside, and Racey was
clinging to her so--it looked, too, so warm and comfortable inside the
nice, bright house, that I could not help going in. Tom would have
pulled me in, I think, had I refused. He was still sobbing, but once we
got inside the hall he began fishing in his pocket till he got out his
handkerchief and scrubbed at his eyes before he would look up at the
young lady at all. _Nothing_ would take away Tom's dislike to be seen
crying.
"James," said the young lady, "open the library door."
James, who had become particularly meek--I suppose he was rather ashamed
of having taken us for little beggars, now that he saw the young lady
knew us--did as she told him. And still carrying Racey in her arms Miss
Goldy-hair (I think I told you that Tom and I called her that to
ourselves after the day she had been at our house?) led the way into the
library where she had been sitting when she was called to speak to the
message boy in the hall. For there were books and some pretty work on
the table, and a little tray with two or three cups and saucers and a
plate with cake--all very nice and neat-looking--the sort of way mother
had things at home. And the fire was burning brightly. It was a nice
room, though rather grave-looking, for there were books all round and
round the walls instead of paper.
The first thing she did--Miss Goldy-hair, I mean--was to draw us near to
the fire. She put Racey down on a low chair that was standing there and
began feeling us to see if we were very wet.
"Not so very bad," she said, smiling for the first time. "Audrey--are
you surprised I remember your name?--take off your jacket, dear. I don't
think the boys will get any harm, this rough serge throws off the rain.
_Now_--" when we were all settled so as to get nice and warm--"now, who
is going to tell me all about it? My little fellow," she added, turning
to Tom, who was still shaking with sobs, partly I think because of the
terrible way he was trying to force them down and to scrub his eyes dry,
"my little man, don't look so unhappy," she put her arm round him as she
spoke, "I'm sure we shall be able to put it all right."
"It's not all that," I said, "it's partly that he can't bear you to see
him crying, Miss Goldy-hair. He thinks it's like a baby."
A different sort of smile came into her face for a moment, a smile of
fun-- I wondered a little what it was. It wasn't till she told me
afterwards that I understood how funny our name for her must have
sounded, for I said it quite without thinking.
"Oh no," she said. "I didn't think that at all, my boy. Here, dear, take
a little drink of this tea." She got up and poured some out. "It's still
hot, and that will help to make the sobs go away."
"Tom had the measles worse than me," I said, "and he's not been so
strong since," for though she said she didn't think him a bit like a
baby, I couldn't bear it for him that he shouldn't be thought brave,
when really he was.
"Ah!" she said quickly, "then we must take great care of him."
She looked at him anxiously while he drank the hot tea.
"I know a great deal about children," she said to me, nodding her head
and smiling again. "Some day I'll show you what a number I have to help
to take care of. But now, little Audrey, what were you three doing out
in the street by yourselves in the dark and the rain?"
"We came out to post a letter," I said; "I didn't want anybody to know
about it for perhaps they wouldn't have sent it. So Mrs. Partridge was
out, and we were in the dining-room, and Uncle Geoff was out, and Sarah
was busy sewing and we thought nobody would know, and Tom wanted to go
alone, but I thought he'd get lost and Racey wouldn't stay alone, so we
all came. And we lost the way, and we thought this was our house because
it was opposite one with an air-garden and we didn't see it couldn't be
ours because it had an air-garden too."
I stopped for a minute out of breath.
"It was me that sawed the air-garden _wurst_," said Racey. He spoke with
great self-satisfaction. There he sat as comfortable as could be--he
seemed to think he had got to an end of all his troubles and to have no
intention of moving from where he was.
The young lady glanced at him with her kind eyes, and then turned again
to me. She was evidently rather puzzled, but very patient, so it was not
difficult to tell her everything. Indeed I couldn't have _helped_
telling her everything. She had a way of making you feel she was strong
and you might trust her and that she could put things right, even though
she was so soft and kind and like a pretty wavy sort of tree--not a bit
hard and rough.
Her face looked a little grave as well as puzzled while I was speaking.
I don't think she liked what I said about not wanting them to know.
_Her_ face and eyes looked as if she had never hidden anything in her
life.
"And what was the letter, Audrey? And whom was it to?"
"It was to Pierson--that's our old nurse," I said. I hesitated a little
and Miss Goldy-hair noticed it.
"And what was it about?" she said, very kindly still, but yet in a way
that I couldn't help answering.
"It was to tell her how unhappy we were," I said in a low voice, "and to
tell her that I was going to try to go to her with the boys--to take
them away from Uncle Geoff's, because Mrs. Partridge is so horrid and
she makes Uncle Geoff think we're always being naughty. And mother said
I was to make the boys happy while she's so far away, and I can't. And I
can't make them good either--we're getting into quarrelling ways
already. I'm sure we'd be better with Pierson in the country."
"Where does Pierson live?" asked the young lady.
"At a village called Cray--it's near Copple--Copple-- I forget the name,
but I've got it written down. You won't tell Uncle Geoff?" I added
anxiously.
"No," said Miss Goldy-hair, "not without your leave. But that reminds
me--won't your uncle be frightened about you all this time?"
"He won't be in till late," I said. "But Sarah will be frightened--and
oh! I'm so afraid Mrs. Partridge will be coming back. Oh! hadn't we
better go now if you'll tell us the way. It's in this street, isn't it?"
"No, dear," said the young lady--and I was so glad she called me "dear."
I had been afraid she wouldn't like me any more when she knew what I had
been thinking of doing. "No, dear," she said, "you've got into another
street altogether--that's why you were so puzzled. This street is very
like the one you live in and they run parallel, if you know what that
means."
"I wish it was this street," I said.
"And so do I," said Tom.
"Why?" asked Miss Goldy-hair.
"Because we'd like to be near you," we both said, pressing close to her.
"You're like mother."
The tears came into Miss Goldy-hair's eyes--they really did--but she
smiled too.
"And what do you say, my little man?" she said to Racey.
Racey was still reposing most comfortably in his big chair.
"I'll stay here," he said, "if Audrey and Tom can stay too. And I'd like
'tawberry jam for tea."
The young lady smiled again.
"I'd like to keep you," she said, "but think how frightened poor Sarah
will be--and your uncle when he comes in."
Tom and I looked at each other. We were so glad she didn't say, "Think
how frightened poor Mrs. Partridge will be."
"I think the best thing will be for me to take you home," she went on.
"Though it isn't in this street it's very near. Not three minutes' walk.
Yes," she said, more as if speaking to herself than to us, "that will be
best--for me to take them alone."
She rang the bell, and James appeared.
"James," she said, "I am going out for a few minutes. When Miss Arbour
comes in tell her I shall not be long. I am sure to be back by
dinner-time."
Then Miss Goldy-hair went away for a minute or two and returned wrapped
up in a big cloak, and with a couple of little jackets which she put on
Tom and Racey.
"These are some of my children's jackets," she said. Tom and Racey
looked at them curiously. It was queer that Miss Goldy-hair's children's
cloaks should just fit them.
"They're just right for us," said Tom.
"Yes," she said, "I have several sizes of them. I've been getting them
ready for my children for this cold weather."
"Are they here?" said Tom.
"Who?" said Miss Goldy-hair.
"Your childrens," said Tom.
Miss Goldy-hair shook her head.
"No," she replied. "They're in a much bigger house than this. There
wouldn't be room for them here."
Then seeing that Tom, and I too, I dare say--not Racey, he wouldn't have
been surprised if Miss Goldy-hair had said she had a hundred children;
he never was surprised at anything when he was a little boy. If he had
heard his toy-horses talking in their stables some day, I don't believe
he'd have been startled--but seeing that Tom and I looked puzzled she
explained what she meant to us.
"It is poor children I mean," she said. "Some kind ladies have made a
nice home for poor orphan children who have no homes of their own, and
as I have not any one of my own to take care of I have a great deal of
time. So I go to see these poor children very often to help to teach
them and make them happy, and sometimes when they are ill to help to
nurse them. I like going to see them very much."
Tom looked rather pleased when he heard that Miss Goldy-hair meant poor
children. I think he was a little inclined to be jealous before he heard
that.
"But it isn't as nice as if you had children of your own in your own
house--like mother has us. It isn't as nice as if _we_ were your
children," said Tom.
Miss Goldy-hair smiled.
"No," she said, "I don't think it is."
We were in the street by this time, walking along pretty quickly, for it
was still raining a little and very cold. But we didn't mind it. Miss
Goldy-hair knew the way so well. She turned down one or two small side
streets, and then in a minute we found ourselves at Uncle Geoff's.
Walking along with her we had felt so well taken care of that we had
almost forgotten our fears of what might meet us at home. But now,
actually on the door-steps, they returned.
"Don't ring, Miss Goldy-hair, please," I said. "Let's see first if the
door is still open."
Strange to say it was! After all, though it has taken so long to tell,
not more than three-quarters of an hour had passed since we went out,
and it was a quiet time of evening. No one had happened to ring at the
bell. But as we pushed open the door, the first thing we saw was
Sarah--flying down-stairs in a terrible fright, as white as a sheet and
looking nearly out of her mind. She had missed us out of the dining-room
and had rushed up to the nursery to look for us, and not finding us
there did not know what to think.
She gave a sort of scream when she saw us.
"Oh dear! oh dear!" she cried. "Where _have_ you been? Oh, Miss Audrey,
how could you! Oh dear! you have frightened me so."
But before we said anything Tom and I ran forward with the same
question.
"Has Mrs. Partridge come in?" and oh! how thankful we were when Sarah
shook her head.
"Thank goodness, no!" she said.
Then Miss Goldy-hair came forward. She had been writing a few words in
pencil on a card, and in her excitement, Sarah had hardly noticed her.
"Will you give this to Dr. Gower when he comes in?" said Miss
Goldy-hair, and Sarah made a little curtsey and begged her pardon for
not having seen her.
"Dr. Gower knows me," she said to Sarah; "but please do not say anything
to him about my having brought the children home, as I would rather
explain it myself."
Then she turned to go, but we all clung about her. "Oh, Miss Goldy-hair,
Miss Goldy-hair," we cried, "you're not going away."
"I must, dears," she said, "but I shall be sure to see you to-morrow. I
am going to ask your uncle to let you come and have dinner and tea with
me."
"But p'raps the new nurse'll come to-morrow, and she'll whip us," sobbed
Racey.
Miss Goldy-hair looked quite distressed.
"No, dear," she said. "I'm sure your uncle wouldn't let her."
"Will you turn early, _kite_ early?" Racey begged.
"Yes, that I can promise you," she answered.
But I too had some last words.
"Miss Goldy-hair," I said, "you told me you wouldn't tell Uncle Geoff?"
"Not without your leave, dear, I said," she replied. "But don't you
think it would be better to tell him? Won't you trust me to tell him?"
"But not Mrs. Partridge," I pleaded.
"No, I don't think we need tell Mrs. Partridge."
"Well, then I'll let you tell Uncle Geoff, and if he writes to mother
that we're naughty you'll write too, won't you?"
[Illustration: "Can't you trust me, Audrey?"]
"Wait till to-morrow and we'll talk it all over. Can't you trust me,
Audrey?"
She bent down and looked in my face. I looked at her for a minute
without speaking. I liked to be _sure_ before I said a thing, always. So
I looked right into her face, but I won't tell you what I thought,
because _somebody_ that's going to read this over might be vexed. And
all I _said_ was, "Yes, Miss Goldy-hair."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]