THE SIX PINLESS BROOCHES.
"They have no school, no governess, and do just what they please,
No little worries vex the birds that live up in the trees."
THE DISCONTENTED STARLINGS.
Not many days after this thrilling adventure of Sylvia's, the little
party of travellers reached their destination, grandmother's pretty house
at Châlet. They were of course delighted to be there, everything was so
bright, and fresh, and comfortable, and grandmother herself was glad to
be again settled down at what to her now represented home. But yet, at
the bottom of their hearts, the children were a little sorry that the
travelling was over. True, Molly declared that, though their passage
across the Channel had really been a very good one as these dreadful
experiences go, nothing would _ever_ induce her to repeat the experiment;
whatever came of it, there was no help for it, live and die in France, at
least on this side of the water, she _must_.
"I am never going to marry, you know," she observed to Sylvia, "so for
that it doesn't matter, as of course I _couldn't_ marry a Frenchman. But
you will come over to see me sometimes and bring your children, and when
I get very old, as I shall have no one to be kind to me you see, I
daresay I shall get some one to let me be their concierge like the old
woman in our lodge. I shall be very poor of course, but _anything_ is
better than crossing the sea again."
It sounded very melancholy. Sylvia's mind misgave her that perhaps she
should offer to stay with Molly "for always" on this side of the channel,
but she did not feel quite sure about it. And the odd thing was that of
them all Molly had most relished the travelling, and was most eager to
set off again. She liked the fuss and bustle of it, she said; she liked
the feeling of not being obliged to do any special thing at any special
hour, for regularity and method were sore crosses to Molly.
"It is so nice," she said, "to feel when we get up in the morning that we
shall be out of one bustle into another all day, and nobody to say 'You
will be late for your music,' or, 'Have you finished your geography,
Molly?'"
"Well," said Sylvia, "I am sure you haven't much of that kind of thing
just now, Molly. We have _far_ less lessons than we had at home. It is
almost like holidays."
This was quite true. It had been settled between grandmother and their
father that for the first two or three months the children should not
have many lessons. They had been working pretty hard for a year or two
with a very good, but rather strict, governess, and Sylvia, at no time
exceedingly strong, had begun to look a little fagged.
"They will have plenty to use their brains upon at first," said their
father. "The novelty of everything, the different manners and customs,
and the complete change of life, all that will be enough to occupy and
interest them, and I don't want to overwork them. Let them run wild for
a little."
It sounded very reasonable, but grandmother had her doubts about it all
the same. "Running wild" in her experience had never tended to making
little people happier or more contented.
"They are always better and more able to enjoy play-time when they feel
that they have done some work well and thoroughly," she said to aunty.
"However, we must wait a little. If I am not much mistaken, the children
themselves will be the first to tire of being too much at their own
disposal."
For a few weeks it seemed as if Mr. Heriott had been right. The children
were so interested and amused by all they saw that it really seemed as if
there would not be room in their minds for anything else. Every time they
went out a walk they returned, Molly especially, in raptures with some
new marvel. The bullocks who drew the carts, soft-eyed, clumsy creatures,
looking, she declared, so "sweet and patient;" the endless varieties of
"sisters," with the wonderful diversity of caps; the chatter, and bustle,
and clatter on the market-days; the queer, quaint figures that passed
their gates on horse and pony back, jogging along with their butter and
cheese and eggs from the mountain farms--all and everything was
interesting and marvellous and entertaining to the last degree.
"I don't know how other children find time to do lessons here," she said
to Sylvia one day. "It is quite difficult to remember just practising and
French, and think what lots of other lessons we did at home, and we
seemed to have much more time."
"Yes," said Sylvia, "and do you know, Molly, I think I liked it better.
Just now at the end of the day I never feel as if I had done anything
nicely and settledly, and I think Ralph feels so too. _He_ is going to
school regularly next month, every day. I wish we were too."
"_I_ don't," said Molly, "and it will be very horrid of you, Sylvia, if
you go putting anything like that into grandmother's head. There now, she
is calling us, and I am not _nearly_ ready. Where _are_ my gloves? Oh, I
cannot find them."
"What did you do with them yesterday when you came in?" said Sylvia. "You
ran down to the lodge to see the soldiers passing; don't you remember,
just when you had half taken off your things?"
"Oh yes, and I believe I left them in my other jacket pocket. Yes, here
they are. There is grandmother calling again. Do run, Sylvia, and tell
her I'm just coming."
Molly was going out alone with grandmother to-day, and having known all
the morning at what time she was to be ready, there was no excuse for
her tardiness.
"My dear child," said grandmother, who, tired of waiting, just then made
her appearance in their room, "what have you been doing? And you don't
look half dressed now. See, your collar is tumbling off. I must really
tell Marcelline never to let you go out without looking you all over."
"It wasn't Marcelline's fault, grandmother dear," said Molly. "I'm so
sorry. I dressed in such a hurry."
"And why in such a hurry?" asked grandmother. "This is not a day on which
you have any lessons."
"No-o," began Molly; but a new thought struck grandmother. "Oh, by the
by, children, where are your letters for your father? I told you I should
take them to the post myself, you remember, as I wasn't sure how many
stamps to put on for Cairo."
Sylvia looked at Molly, Molly looked at Sylvia. Neither dared look at
grandmother. Both grew very red. At last,
"I am _so_ sorry, grandmother dear."
"I am _so_ sorry, dear grandmother."
"We are both _so_ sorry; we _quite_ forgot we were to write them this
morning."
Grandmother looked at them both with a somewhat curious expression.
"You both forgot?" she said. "Have you so much to do, my dear little
girls, that you haven't room in your minds to remember even this one
thing?"
"No, grandmother, it isn't that. I should have remembered," said Sylvia
in a low voice.
"I don't know, grandmother dear," replied Molly, briskly. "My mind does
seem very full. I don't know how it is, I'm sure."
Grandmother quietly opened a drawer in a chest of drawers near to
which she was standing. It was very neat. The different articles it
contained were arranged in little heaps; there were a good many things
in it--gloves, scarfs, handkerchiefs, ribbons, collars, but there seemed
plenty of room for all.
"Whose drawer is this?" she asked.
[Illustration: 'WHOSE DRAWER IS THIS?']
"Mine," said Sylvia.
"Sylvia's," answered Molly in the same breath, but growing very red as
she saw grandmother's hand and eyes turning in the direction of the
neighbour drawer to the one she had opened.
"I am so sorry, grandmother dear," she exclaimed; "I wish you wouldn't
look at mine to-day. I was going to put it tidy, but I hadn't time."
It was too late. Grandmother had already opened the drawer. Ah, dear!
what a revelation! Gloves, handkerchiefs, scarfs, ribbons, collars;
collars ribbons, scarfs, handkerchiefs, gloves, in a sort of _pot-pourri_
all together, or as if waiting to be beaten up into some wonderful new
kind of pudding! Molly grew redder and redder.
"Dear me!" said grandmother. "This is your drawer, I suppose, Molly. How
is it it is so much smaller than Sylvia's?"
"It isn't, grandmother dear," said Molly, rather surprised at the turn of
the conversation. "It is just the same size exactly."
"Then how is it you have so many more things to keep in it than Sylvia?"
"I haven't, grandmother dear," said Molly. "We have just exactly the same
of everything."
"And yet yours looks crowded to the last degree--far too full--and in
hers there seems plenty of room for everything."
"Because, grandmother dear," said Molly, opening wide her eyes, "hers is
neat and mine isn't."
"Ah," said grandmother. "See what comes of order. Suppose you try a
little of it with that mind of yours, Molly, which you say seems always
too full. Do you know I strongly suspect that if everything in it were
very neatly arranged, you would find a very great deal of room in it; you
would be surprised to find how little, not how much, it contains."
"_Would_ I, grandmother dear?" said Molly, looking rather mystified. "I
don't quite understand."
"Think about it a little, and then I fancy you will understand," said
grandmother. "But we really must go now, or I shall be too late for what
I wanted to do. There is that collar of yours loose again, Molly. A
little brooch would be the proper thing to fasten it with. You have
several."
Poor Molly--her unlucky star was in the ascendant this afternoon surely!
She grew very red again, as she answered confusedly,
"Yes, grandmother dear."
"Well then, quick, my dear. Put on the brooch with the bit of coral in
the middle, like the one that Sylvia has on now."
"Please, grandmother dear, that one's pin's broken."
"The pin's broken! Ah, well, we'll take it to have it mended then. Where
is it, my dear? Give it to me."
Molly opened the unlucky drawer, and after a minute or two's fumbling
extracted from its depths a little brooch which she handed to
grandmother. Grandmother looked at it.
"This is not the one, Molly. This is the one Aunty sent you on your last
birthday, with the little turquoises round it."
Molly turned quickly.
"Oh yes. It isn't the coral one. It must be in the drawer."
Another rummage brought forth the coral one.
"But the turquoise one has no pin either!"
"No, grandmother dear. It broke last week."
"Then it too must go to be mended," said grandmother with decision. "See,
here is another one that will do for to-day."
She, in turn, drew forth another brooch. A little silver one this time,
in the shape of a bird flying. But as she was handing it to Molly, "Why,
this one _also_ has no pin!" she exclaimed.
"No, grandmother dear. I broke it the day before yesterday."
Grandmother laid the three brooches down in a row.
"How many brooches in all have you, Molly?" she said.
"Six, grandmother dear. They are just the same as Sylvia has. We have
each six."
"And where are the three others?"
Molly opened a little box that stood on the top of the chest of drawers.
"They're here," she said, and so they were, poor things. A little mosaic
brooch set in silver, a mother-of-pearl with steel border, and a
tortoise-shell one in the shape of a crescent; these made up her
possessions.
"I meant," she added naïvely, "I meant to have put them all in this box
as I broke them, but I left the coral one, and the turquoise one, and the
bird in the drawer by mistake."
"_As you broke them?_" repeated grandmother. "How many are broken then?"
"All," said Molly. "I mean the pins are."
It was quite true. There lay the six brooches--brooches indeed no
longer--for not a pin was there to boast of among them!
"Six pinless brooches!" said grandmother drily, taking them up one after
another. "Six pinless brooches--the property of one careless little girl.
Little girls are changed from the days when I was young! I shall take
these six brooches to be mended at once, Molly, but what I shall do with
them when they are mended I cannot as yet say."
She put them all in the little box from which three of them had been
taken, and with it in her hand went quietly out of the room. Molly, by
this time almost in tears, remained behind for a moment to whisper to
Sylvia,
"Is grandmother dreadfully angry, do you think, Sylvia? I am so
frightened, I wish I wasn't going out with her."
"Then you should not have been so horribly careless. I never knew any one
so careless," said Sylvia, in rather a Job's comforter tone of voice.
"Of course you must tell grandmother how sorry you are, and how ashamed
of yourself, and ask her to forgive you."
"Grandmother dear," said Molly, her irrepressible spirits rising again
when she found herself out in the pleasant fresh air, sitting opposite
grandmother in the carriage, bowling along so smoothly--grandmother
having made no further allusion to the unfortunate brooches--"Grandmother
dear, I am so sorry and so ashamed of myself. Will you please forgive
me?"
"And what then, my dear?" said grandmother.
"I will try to be careful; indeed I will. I will tell you how it is
I break them so, grandmother dear. I am always in such a hurry, and
brooches _are_ so provoking sometimes. They won't go in, and I give
them a push, and then they just squock across in a moment."
"They just _what_?" said grandmother.
"Squock across, grandmother dear," said Molly serenely. "It's a word of
my own. I have a good many words of my own like that. But I won't say
them if you'd rather not. I've got a plan in my head--it's just come
there--of teaching myself to be more careful with brooches, so _please_,
grandmother dear, do try me again when the brooches are mended. _Of
course_ I'll pay them out of my own money."
"Well, we'll see," said grandmother, as the carriage stopped at the
jeweller's shop where the poor brooches were to be doctored.
During the next two days there was a decided improvement in Molly. She
spent a great part of them in putting her drawers and other possessions
in order, and was actually discovered in a quiet corner mending a pair
of gloves. She was not once late for breakfast or dinner, and,
notwithstanding the want of the brooches, her collars retained their
position with unusual docility. All these symptoms were not lost on
grandmother, and to Molly's great satisfaction, on the evening of the
third day she slipped into her hand a little box which had just been left
at the door.
"The brooches, Molly," said grandmother. "They have cost just three
francs. I think I may trust you with them, may I not?"
"Oh yes, grandmother dear. I'm sure you may," said Molly, radiant. "And
do you know my drawers are just _beautiful_. I wish you could see them."
"Never fear, my dear. I shall be sure to take a look at them some day
soon. Shall I pay them an unexpected visit--eh, Molly?"
"If you like," replied the little girl complacently. "I've quite left off
being careless and untidy; it's so much nicer to be careful and neat.
Good-night, grandmother dear, and thank you so much for teaching me so
nicely."
"Good-night, grand-daughter dear. But remember, my little Molly, that
Rome was not built in a day."
"Of course not--how could a big town be built in a day? Grandmother dear,
what funny things you do say," said Molly, opening wide her eyes.
"_The better to make you think, my dear_," said grandmother, in a gruff
voice that made Molly jump.
"Oh dear! how you do frighten me when you speak like that, grandmother
dear," she said in such a piteous tone that they all burst out laughing
at her.
"My poor little girl, it is a shame to tease you," said grandmother,
drawing her towards her. "To speak plainly, my dear, what I want you to
remember is this: Faults are not cured, any more than big towns are
built, in a day."
"No, I know they are not. I'm not forgetting that. I've been making a lot
of plans for making myself remember about being careful," said Molly,
nodding her head sagaciously. "You'll see, grandmother dear."
And off to bed she went.
The children went out early the next morning for a long walk in the
country. It was nearly luncheon time when they returned, and they were
met in the hall by aunty, who told them to run upstairs and take off
their things quickly, as a friend of their grandmother's had come to
spend the day with her.
"And make yourselves neat, my dears," she said. "Miss Wren is a
particular old lady."
Sylvia was down in the drawing-room in five minutes, hair brushed, hands
washed, collar straight. She went up to Miss Wren to be introduced to
her, and then sat down in a corner by the window with a book. Miss Wren
was very deaf, and her deafness had the effect, as she could not in the
least hear her own voice, of making her shout out her observations in a
very loud tone, sometimes rather embarrassing for those to whom they were
addressed, or, still worse, for those concerning whom they were made.
"Nice little girl," she remarked to grandmother, "very nice,
pretty-behaved little girl. Rather like poor Mary, is she not? Not so
pretty! Dear me, what a pretty girl Mary was the first winter you were
here, twelve, no, let me see, fourteen years ago! Never could think what
made her take a fancy to that solemn-looking husband of hers."
Grandmother laid her hand warningly on Miss Wren's arm, and glanced in
Sylvia's direction, and greatly to her relief just then, there came a
diversion in the shape of Molly. Grandmother happened to be asked a
question at this moment by a servant who just came into the room, and had
therefore turned aside for an instant as Molly came up to speak to Miss
Wren. Her attention was quickly caught again, however, by the old lady's
remarks, delivered as usual in a very loud voice.
"How do you do, my dear? And what is your name? Dear me, is this a new
fashion? Laura," to aunty, who was writing a note at the side-table and
had not noticed Molly's entrance, "Laura, my dear, I wonder your mother
allows the child to wear so much jewellery. In _my_ young days such a
thing was never heard of."
Aunty got up from her writing at this, and grandmother turned round
quickly. What could Miss Wren be talking about? Was her sight, as well
as her hearing, failing her? Was grandmother's own sight, hitherto quite
to be depended upon, playing her some queer trick? There stood Molly,
serene as usual, with--it took grandmother quite a little while to count
them--one, two, three, yes, _six_ brooches fastened on to the front of
her dress! All the six invalid brooches, just restored to health, that is
to say _pins_, were there in their glory. The turquoise one in the
middle, the coral and the tortoise-shell ones at each side of it, the
three others, the silver bird, the mosaic and the mother-of-pearl
arranged in a half-moon below them, in the front of the child's dress.
They were placed with the greatest neatness and precision; it must have
cost Molly both time and trouble to put each in the right spot.
Grandmother stared, aunty stared, Miss Wren looked at Molly curiously.
"Odd little girl," she remarked, in what she honestly believed to be a
perfectly inaudible whisper, to grandmother. "She is not so nice as the
other, not so like poor Mary. But I wonder, my dear, I really do wonder
at your allowing her to wear so much jewellery. In _our_ young days----"
For once in her life grandmother was _almost_ rude to Miss Wren. She
interrupted her reminiscences of "our young days" by turning sharply to
Molly.
"Molly," she said, "go up to your room at once and take off that
nonsense. What _is_ the meaning of it? Do you intend to make a joke of
what you should be so ashamed of, your own carelessness?"
Molly stared up in blank surprise and distress.
"Grandmother dear," she said confusedly. "It was my _plan_. It was to
make me careful."
Grandmother felt much annoyed, and Molly's self-defence vexed her more.
"Go up to your room," she repeated. "You have vexed me very much. Either
you intend to make a joke of what I hoped would have been a lesson to you
for all your life, or else, Molly, it is as if you had not all your wits.
Go up to your room at once."
Molly said no more. Never before had grandmother and aunty looked at her
"like that." She turned and ran out of the room and up to her own, and
throwing herself down on the bed burst into tears.
"I thought it was such a good plan," she sobbed. "I wanted to please
grandmother. And I do believe she thinks I meant to mock her. Oh dear! oh
dear! oh dear!"
Downstairs the luncheon bell rang, and they all seated themselves at
table, but no Molly appeared.
"Shall I run up and tell her to come down?" suggested Sylvia, but "no,"
said grandmother, "it is better not."
But grandmother's heart was sore.
"I shall be so sorry if there is anything of sulkiness or resentfulness
in Molly," she said to herself. "What _could_ the child have had in her
head?"