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GRANDMOTHER DEAR
A Book for Boys and Girls
by
MRS. MOLESWORTH
Author of 'Carrots,' 'Cuckoo Clock,' 'Tell Me a Story'
Illustrated by Walter Crane
MacMillan and Co., Limited
St. Martin's Street, London
1932
First Edition November 1878. Reprinted December 1878
September and December 1882, 1886
1887, 1889, 1892, 1895, 1897, 1899, 1900, 1902, 1904, 1906, 1909, 1911
1918, 1920, 1932
Printed in Great Britain
by R. & R. Clark, Limited, Edinburgh
[Illustration: 'I HOPE IT ISN'T HAUNTED.']
TO
_OUR_ 'GRANDMOTHER DEAR,'
A. J. S.
Maison Du Chanoine,
_October_ 1878.
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER I. Making Friends
CHAPTER II. Lost in the Louvre
CHAPTER III. "_Where_ is Sylvia?"
CHAPTER IV. The Six Pinless Brooches
CHAPTER V. Molly's Plan
CHAPTER VI. The Apple-Tree of Stéfanos
CHAPTER VII. Grandmother's Grandmother
CHAPTER VIII. Grandmother's Story (_Continued_)
CHAPTER IX. Ralph's Confidence
CHAPTER X. "That Cad Sawyer"
CHAPTER XI. "That Cad Sawyer"--Part II.
CHAPTER XII. A Christmas Adventure
CHAPTER XIII. A Christmas Adventure--Part II.
CHAPTER XIV. How this Book came to be written
LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS.
Sylvia lost in the Louvre
"Whose Drawer is this?"
Under the Apple-Tree
"Zwanzig--Twenty Schelling, that Cup"
In the Coppice
"Good-Bye again, my Boy, and God bless you!"
"I hope it isn't Haunted"
CHAPTER I.
MAKING FRIENDS.
"Good onset bodes good end."
SPENSER.
"Well?" said Ralph.
"Well?" said Sylvia.
"Well?" said Molly.
Then they all three stood and looked at each other. Each had his or her
own opinion on the subject which was uppermost in their minds, but each
was equally reluctant to express it, till that of the others had been got
at. So each of the three said "Well?" to the other two, and stood
waiting, as if they were playing the old game of "Who speaks first?" It
got tiresome, however, after a bit, and Molly, whose patience was the
most quickly exhausted, at last threw caution and dignity to the winds.
"Well," she began, but the "well" this time had quite a different tone
from the last; "_well_," she repeated emphatically, "I'm the youngest,
and I suppose you'll say I shouldn't give my opinion first, but I just
will, for all that. And my opinion is, that she's just as nice as she can
be."
"And I think so too," said Sylvia, "Don't you, Ralph?"
"I?" said Ralph loftily, "you forget. _I_ have seen her before."
"Yes, but not to _remember_," said Sylvia and Molly at once. "You might
just as well never have seen her before as far as that goes. But isn't
she nice?"
"Ye-es," said Ralph. "I don't think she's bad for a grandmother."
"'For a grandmother!'" cried Molly indignantly. "What do you mean, Ralph?
What can be nicer than a nice grandmother?"
"But suppose she wasn't nice? she needn't be, you know. There are
grandmothers and grandmothers," persisted Ralph.
"Of course I know _that_," said Molly. "You don't suppose I thought our
grandmother was everybody's grandmother, you silly boy. What I say is
she's just like a real grandmother--not like Nora Leslie's, who is always
scolding Nora's mother for spoiling her children, and wears such grand,
quite _young lady_ dresses, and has _black_ hair," with an accent of
profound disgust, "not nice, beautiful, soft, silver hair, like _our_
grandmother's. Now, isn't it true, Sylvia, isn't our grandmother just
like a _real_ one?"
Sylvia smiled. "Yes, exactly," she replied. "She would almost do for a
fairy godmother, if only she had a stick with a gold knob."
"Only perhaps she'd beat us with it," said Ralph.
"Oh no, not _beat_ us," cried Molly, dancing about. "It would be worse
than that. If we were naughty she'd point it at us, and then we'd all
three turn into toads, or frogs, or white mice. Oh, just fancy! I am so
glad she hasn't got a gold-headed stick."
"Children," said a voice at the door, which made them all jump, though it
was such a kind, cheery voice. "Aren't you ready for tea? I'm glad to see
you are not very tired, but you must be hungry. Remember that you've
travelled a good way to-day."
"Only from London, grandmother dear," said Molly; "that isn't very far."
"And the day after to-morrow you have to travel a long way farther,"
continued her grandmother. "You must get early to bed, and keep
yourselves fresh for all that is before you. Aunty says _she_ is very
hungry, so you little people must be so too. Yes, dears, you may run
downstairs first, and I'll come quietly after you; I am not so young as
I have been, you know."
Molly looked up with some puzzle in her eyes at this.
"Not so young as you have been, grandmother dear?" she repeated.
"Of course not," said Ralph. "And you're not either, Molly. Once you were
a baby in long clothes, and, barring the long clothes, I don't know but
what----"
"Hush, Ralph. Don't begin teasing her," said Sylvia in a low voice, not
lost, however, upon grandmother.
What _was_ lost upon grandmother?
"And what were you all so busy chattering about when I interrupted you
just now?" she inquired, when they were all seated round the tea-table,
and thanks to the nice cold chicken and ham, and rolls and butter and
tea-cakes, and all manner of good things, the children fast "losing their
appetites."
Sylvia blushed and looked at Ralph; Ralph grew much interested in
the grounds at the bottom of his tea-cup; only Molly, Molly the
irrepressible, looked up briskly.
"Oh, nothing," she replied; "at least nothing particular."
"Dear me! how odd that you should all three have been talking at once
about anything so uninteresting as nothing particular," said grandmother,
in a tone which made them all laugh.
"It wasn't _exactly_ about nothing particular," said Molly: "it was about
_you_, grandmother dear."
"Molly!" said Sylvia reproachfully, but Molly was not so easily to be
snubbed.
"We were wishing," she continued, "that you had a gold-headed stick, and
then you'd be quite _perfect_."
It was grandmother's and aunty's turn to laugh now.
"Only," Molly went on, "Ralph said perhaps you'd beat us with it, and
I said no, most likely you'd turn us into frogs or mice, you know."
"'Frogs or mice, I know,' but indeed I don't know," said grandmother;
"why should I wish to turn my boy and girl children into frogs and mice?"
"If we were naughty, I meant," said Molly. "Oh, Sylvia, you explain--I
always say things the wrong way."
"It was I that said you looked like a fairy godmother," said Sylvia,
blushing furiously, "and that put it into Molly's head about the frogs
and mice."
"But the only fairy godmother _I_ remember that did these wonderful
things turned mice into horses to please her god-daughter. Have you not
got hold of the wrong end of the story, Molly?" said grandmother.
"The wrong end and beginning and middle too, I should say," observed
Ralph.
"Yes, grandmother dear, I always do," said Molly, complacently. "I never
remember stories or anything the right way, my head is so funnily made."
"When you can't find your gloves, because you didn't put them away
carefully, is it the fault of the shape of the chest of drawers?"
inquired grandmother quietly.
"Yes, I suppose so,--at least, no, I mean, of course it isn't," replied
Molly, taking heed to her words half-way through, when she saw that they
were all laughing at her.
Grandmother smiled, but said no more.
"What a wool-gathering little brain it is," she said to herself.
When she smiled, all the children agreed together afterwards, she looked
more like a fairy godmother than ever. She was really a _very_ pretty old
lady. Never very tall, with age she had grown smaller, though still
upright as a dart; the "November roses" in her cheeks were of their kind
as sweet as the June ones that nestled there long ago--ah! so long ago
now; and the look in her eyes had a tenderness and depth which can only
come from a life of unselfishness, of joy and much sorrow too--a life
whose lessons have been well and dutifully learnt, and of which none has
been more thoroughly taken home than that of gentle judgment of, and much
patience with, others.
While they are all finishing their tea, would you, my boy and girl
friends, like to know who they were--these three, Ralph, Sylvia, and
Molly, whom I want to tell you about, and whom I hope you will love? When
I was a little girl I liked to know exactly about the children in my
books, each of whom had his or her distinct place in my affections. I
liked to know their names, their ages, all about their homes and their
relations _most_ exactly, and more than once I was laughed at for writing
out a sort of genealogical tree of some of my little fancy friends'
family connections. We need not go quite so far as _that_, but I will
explain to you about these new little friends of yours enough for you to
be able to find out the rest for yourselves.
They had never seen their grandmother before, never, that is to say, in
the girls' case, and in Ralph's "not to remember her." Ralph was fourteen
now, Sylvia thirteen, and Molly about a year and a half younger. More
than seven years ago their mother had died, and since then they had been
living with their father, whose profession obliged him often to change
his home, in various different places. It had been impossible for their
grandmother, much as she wished it, to have had them hitherto with her,
for, for several years out of the seven, her hands, and those of aunty,
too, her only other daughter besides their mother, had been more than
filled with other cares. Their grandfather had been ill for many years
before his death, and for his sake grandmother and aunty had left the
English home they loved so much, and gone to live in the south of France.
And after his death, as often happens with people no longer young, and
somewhat wearied, grandmother found that the old dream of returning
"home," and ending her days with her children and old friends round her,
had grown to be but a dream, and, what was more, had lost its charm. She
had grown to love her new home, endeared now by so many associations; she
had got used to the ways of the people, and felt as if English ways would
be strange to her, and as aunty's only idea of happiness was to find it
in hers, the mother and daughter had decided to make their home where for
nearly fourteen years it had been. They had gone to England this autumn
for a few weeks, finally to arrange some matters that had been left
unsettled, and while there something happened which made them very glad
that they had done so. Mr. Heriott, the children's father, had received
an appointment in India, which would take him there for two or three
years, and though grandmother and aunty were sorry to think of his going
so far away, they were--oh, I can't tell you how delighted! when he
agreed to their proposal, that the children's home for the time should be
with them. It would be an advantage for the girls' French, said
grandmother, and would do Ralph no harm for a year or two, and if his
father's absence lasted longer, it could easily be arranged for him to
be sent back to England to school, still spending his holidays at Châlet.
So all was settled; and grandmother, who had taken a little house at
Dover for a few weeks, stayed there quietly, while aunty journeyed away
up to the north of England to fetch the children, their father being too
busy with preparations for his own departure to be able conveniently
to take them to Dover himself. There were some tears shed at parting with
"papa," for the children loved him truly, and believed in his love for
them, quiet and undemonstrative though his manner was. There were some
tears, too, shed at parting with "nurse," who, having conscientiously
spoilt them all, was now getting past work, and was to retire to her
married daughter's; there were a good many bestowed on the rough coat of
Shag, the pony, and the still rougher of Fusser, the Scotch terrier; but
after all, children are children, and for my part I should be very sorry
for them to be anything else, and the delights of the change and the
bustle of the journey soon drowned all melancholy thoughts.
And so far all had gone charmingly. Aunty had proved to be all that could
be wished of aunty-kind, and grandmother promised more than fairly.
"What _would_ we have done if she had been very tall and stout, and
fierce-looking, with spectacles and a hookey nose?" thought Molly, and as
the thought struck her, she left off eating, and sat with wide open eyes,
staring at her grandmother.
Though grandmother did not in general wear spectacles--only when reading
very small print, or busied with some peculiarly fine fancywork--nothing
ever seemed to escape her notice.
"Molly, my dear, what are you staring at so? Is my cap crooked?" she
said. Molly started.
"Oh no, grandmother dear," she replied. "I was only thinking----" she
stopped short, jumped off her seat, and in another moment was round the
table with a rush, which would have been sadly trying to most
grandmothers and aunties, only fortunately these special ones were not
like most!
"What is the matter, dear?" grandmother was beginning to exclaim, when
she was stopped by feeling two arms hugging her tightly, and a rather
bread-and-buttery little mouth kissing her valorously.
"Nothing's the matter," said Molly, when she stopped her kisses, "it only
just came into my head when I was looking at you, how nice you were, you
dear little grandmother, and I thought I'd like to kiss you. I don't want
you to have a gold-headed stick, but I do want one thing, and then you
_would_ be quite perfect. Oh, grandmother dear," she went on, clasping
her hands in entreaty, "just tell me this, _do_ you ever tell stories?"
Grandmother shook her head solemnly. "I _hope_ not, my dear child," she
said, but Molly detected the fun through the solemnity. She gave a
wriggle.
"Now you're laughing at me," she said. "You _know_ I don't mean that
kind. I mean do you ever tell real stories--not real, I don't mean, for
very often the nicest aren't real, about fairies, you know--but you know
the sort of stories I mean. You would look so beautiful telling stories,
wouldn't she now, Sylvia?"
"And the stories would be beautiful if I told them--eh, Molly?"
"Yes, I am sure they would be. _Will_ you think of some?"
"We'll see," said grandmother. "Anyway there's no time for stories at
present. You have ever so much to think of with all the travelling that
is before you. Wait till we get to Châlet, and then we'll see."
"I like _your_ 'we'll see,'" said Molly. "Some people's 'we'll see,' just
means, 'I can't be troubled,' or, 'don't bother.' But I think _your_
'we'll see' sounds nice, grandmother dear."
"I am glad you think so, grand-daughter dear; and now, what about going
to bed? It is only seven, but if you are tired?"
"But we are not a bit tired," said Molly.
"We never go to bed till half-past eight, and Ralph at nine," said
Sylvia.
The word "bed" had started a new flow of ideas in Molly's brain.
"Grandmother," she said, growing all at once very grave, "that reminds me
of one thing I wanted to ask you; do the tops of the beds ever come down
now in Paris?"
"'Do the tops of the beds in Paris ever come down?'" repeated
grandmother. "My dear child, what _do_ you mean?"
"It was a story she heard," began Sylvia, in explanation.
"About somebody being suffocated in Paris by the top of the bed coming
down," continued Ralph.
"It was robbers that wanted to steal his money," added Molly.
Grandmother began to look less mystified. "Oh, _that_ old story!" she
said. "But how did you hear it? I remember it when I was a little girl;
it really happened to a friend of my grandfather's, and afterwards I came
across it in a little book about dogs. 'Fidelity of dogs,' was the name
of it, I think. The dog saved the traveller's life by dragging him out of
the bed."
"Yes," said aunty, "I remember that book too. It was among your old
child's books, mother. A queer little musty brown volume, and I remember
how the story frightened me."
"There now!" said Molly triumphantly. "You see it frightened aunty too.
So I'm _not_ such a baby after all."
"Yes, you are," said Ralph. "People might be frightened without making
such a fuss. Molly declared she would rather not go to Paris at all.
_That's_ what I call being babyish--it isn't the feeling frightened
that's babyish--for people might feel frightened and still _be_ brave,
mightn't they, grandmother?"
"Certainly, my boy. That is what _moral_ courage means."
"Oh!" said Molly, as if a new idea had dawned upon her. "I see. Then it
doesn't matter if I am frightened if I don't tell any one."
"Not exactly that," said grandmother. "I would _like_ you all to be
strong and sensible, and to have good nerves, which it would take a good
deal to startle, as well as to have what certainly is best of all, plenty
of moral courage."
"And if Molly is frightened, she certainly couldn't help telling," said
Sylvia, laughing. "She does _so_ pinch whoever is next her."
"There was nothing about a dog in the story of the bed we heard," said
Molly. "It was in a book that a boy at school lent Ralph. I wouldn't ever
be frightened if I had Fusser, I don't think. I do so wish I had asked
papa to let him come with us--just _in case_, you know, of the beds
having anything funny about them: it would be so comfortable to have
Fusser."
At this they all laughed, and aunty promised that if Molly felt
dissatisfied with the appearance of her bed, she would exchange with her.
And not long after, Sylvia and Molly began to look so sleepy, in spite of
their protestations that the dustman's cart was nowhere near _their_
door, that aunty insisted they must be mistaken, _she_ had heard his
warning bell ringing some minutes ago. So the two little sisters came
round to say good-night.
"Good night, grandmother dear," said Molly, in a voice which tried hard
to be brisk as usual through the sleepiness.
Grandmother laid her hand on her shoulder and looked into her eyes. Molly
had nice eyes when you looked at them closely: they were honest and
candid, though of too pale a blue to show at first sight the expression
they really contained. Just now too, they were blinking and winking a
little. Still grandmother must have been able to read in them what she
wanted, for her face looked satisfied when she withdrew her gaze.
"So I am _really_ to be 'grandmother dear,' to you, my dear funny little
girl?" she said.
"Of course, grandmother dear. Really, _really_ I mean," said Molly,
laughing at herself. "Do you see it in my eyes?"
"Yes, I think I do. You have nice honest eyes, my little girl."
Molly flushed a little with pleasure. "I thought they were rather ugly.
Ralph calls them 'cats',' and 'boiled gooseberries,'" she said. "Anyway
Sylvia's are much prettier. She has such nice long eyelashes."
"Sylvia's are very sweet," said grandmother, kissing her in turn, "and we
won't make comparisons. Both pairs of eyes will do very well my darlings,
if always
'The light within them,
Tender is and true.'
Now good night, and God bless my little grand-daughters. Ralph, you'll sit
up with me a little longer, won't you?"
"What nice funny things grandmother says, doesn't she, Sylvia?" said
Molly, as they were undressing.
"She says nice things," said Sylvia, "I don't know about they're being
funny. You call everything funny, Molly."
"Except you when you're going to bed, for then you're very often rather
cross," said Molly.
But as she was only _in fun_, Sylvia took it in good part, and, after
kissing each other good night, both little sisters fell asleep without
loss of time.