The Captain's children sat at breakfast in a large, bright nursery. It
was the room where the old bachelor had died, and now _her_ children
made it merry. This is just what he would have wished.
They all sat round the table, for it was breakfast-time. There were five
of them, and five bowls of boiled bread-and-milk smoked before them.
Sarah, a foolish, gossiping girl, who acted as nurse till better could
be found, was waiting on them, and by the table sat Darkie, the black
retriever, his long, curly back swaying slightly from the difficulty of
holding himself up, and his solemn hazel eyes fixed very intently on
each and all of the breakfast bowls. He was as silent and sagacious as
Sarah was talkative and empty-headed. The expression of his face was
that of King Charles I. as painted by Vandyke. Though large, he was
unassuming. Pax, the pug, on the contrary, who came up to the first
joint of Darkie's leg, stood defiantly on his dignity and his short
stumps. He always placed himself in front of the bigger dog, and made a
point of hustling him in door-ways and of going first down stairs. He
strutted like a beadle, and carried his tail more tightly curled than a
bishop's crook. He looked as one may imagine the frog in the fable would
have looked had he been able to swell himself rather nearer to the size
of the ox. This was partly due to his very prominent eyes, and partly to
an obesity favored by habits of lying inside the fender, and of eating
meals proportioned more to his consequence than to his hunger. They were
both favorites of two years' standing, and had very nearly been given
away, when the good news came of an English home for the family, dogs
and all.
Robert's tongue was seldom idle, even at meals. "Are you a Yorkshire
woman, Sarah?" he asked, pausing, with his spoon full in his hand.
"No, Master Robert," said Sarah.
"But you understand Yorkshire, don't you? I can't, very often; but mamma
can, and can speak it, too. Papa says mamma always talks Yorkshire to
servants and poor people. She used to talk Yorkshire to Themistocles,
papa said, and he said it was no good; for, though Themistocles knew a
lot of languages, he didn't know that. And mamma laughed, and said she
didn't know she did. Themistocles was our man-servant in Corfu," Robin
added, in explanation. "He stole lots of things, Themistocles did; but
papa found him out."
Robin now made a rapid attack on his bread-and-milk, after which he
broke out again,--
"Sarah, who is that tall gentleman at church, in the seat near the
pulpit? He wears a cloak like what the Blues wear, only all blue, and is
tall enough for a Life-guardsman. He stood when we were kneeling down,
and said, 'Almighty and most merciful Father,' louder than anybody."
Sarah knew who the old gentleman was, and knew also that the children
did not know, and that their parents did not see fit to tell them as
yet. But she had a passion for telling and hearing news, and would
rather gossip with a child than not gossip at all. "Never you mind,
Master Robin," she said, nodding sagaciously. "Little boys aren't to
know everything."
"Ah, then, I know you don't know," replied Robert; "if you did, you'd
tell. Nicholas, give some of your bread to Darkie and Pax. I've done
mine. For what we have received, the Lord make us truly thankful. Say
your grace, and put your chair away, and come along. I want to hold a
court-martial." And, seizing his own chair by the seat, Robin carried it
swiftly to its corner. As he passed Sarah, he observed, tauntingly, "You
pretend to know, but you don't."
"I do," said Sarah.
"You don't," said Robin.
"Your ma's forbid you to contradict, Master Robin," said Sarah; "and if
you do, I shall tell her. I know well enough who the old gentleman is,
and perhaps I might tell you, only you'd go straight off and tell
again."
"No, no, I wouldn't!" shouted Robin. "I can keep a secret; indeed, I
can! Pinch my little finger, and try. Do, do tell me, Sarah; there's a
dear Sarah, and then I shall know you know." And he danced round her,
catching at her skirts.
To keep a secret was beyond Sarah's powers.
"Do let my dress be, Master Robin," she said; "you're ripping out all
the gathers, and listen while I whisper. As sure as you're a living boy,
that gentleman's your own grandpapa."
Robin lost his hold on Sarah's dress; his arm fell by his side, and he
stood with his brows knit, for some minutes, thinking. Then he said,
emphatically,--
"What lies you do tell, Sarah!"
"Oh, Robin!" cried Nicholas, who had drawn near, his thick curls
standing stark with curiosity; "mamma said 'lies' wasn't a proper word,
and you promised not to say it again."
"I forgot," said Robin. "I didn't mean to break my promise. But she does
tell--ahem!--you know what."
"You wicked boy!" cried the enraged Sarah; "how dare you say such a
thing, and everybody in the place knows he's your ma's own pa."
"I'll go and ask her," said Robin, and he was at the door in a moment;
but Sarah, alarmed by the thought of getting into a scrape herself,
caught him by the arm.
"Don't you go, love; it'll only make your ma angry. There; it was all my
nonsense."
"Then it's not true?" said Robin, indignantly. "What did you tell me so
for?"
"It was all my jokes and nonsense," said the unscrupulous Sarah. "But
your ma wouldn't like to know I've said such a thing. And Master Robert
wouldn't be so mean as to tell tales, would he, love?"
"I'm not mean," said Robin, stoutly; "and I don't tell tales; but you
do, and you tell--you know what--besides. However, I won't go this time;
but I'll tell you what,--if you tell tales of me to papa any more, I'll
tell him what you said about the old gentleman in the blue cloak." With
which parting threat Robin strode off to join his brothers and sister.
Sarah's tale had put the court-martial out of his head, and he leaned
against the tall fender, gazing at his little sister, who was tenderly
nursing a well-worn doll. Robin sighed.
"What a long time that doll takes to wear out, Dora!" said he. "When
will it be done?"
"Oh, not yet, not yet!" cried Dora, clasping the doll to her, and
turning away. "She's quite good, yet."
"How miserly you are," said her brother; "and selfish, too; for you
know I can't have a military funeral till you'll let me bury that old
thing."
Dora began to cry.
"There you go, crying!" said Robin, impatiently. "Look here: I won't
take it till you get the new one on your birthday. You can't be so mean
as not to let me have it then!"
But Dora's tears still fell. "I love this one so much," she sobbed. "I
love her better than the new one."
"You want both; that's it," said Robin, angrily. "Dora, you're the
meanest girl I ever knew!"
At which unjust and painful accusation Dora threw herself and her doll
upon their faces, and wept bitterly. The eyes of the soft-hearted
Nicholas began to fill with tears, and he squatted down before her,
looking most dismal. He had a fellow-feeling for her attachment to an
old toy, and yet Robin's will was law to him.
"Couldn't we make a coffin, and pretend the body was inside?" he
suggested.
"No, we couldn't," said Robin. "I wouldn't play the 'Dead March' after
an empty candle-box. It's a great shame,--and I promised she should be
chaplain in one of my night-gowns, too."
"Perhaps you'll get just as fond of the new one," said Nicholas, turning
to Dora.
But Dora only cried, "No, no! He shall have the new one to bury, and
I'll keep my poor, dear, darling Betsey." And she clasped Betsey tighter
than before.
"That's the meanest thing you've said yet," retorted Robin; "for you
know mamma wouldn't let me bury the new one." And, with an air of great
disgust, he quitted the nursery.