Buttons and Button-holes
THREE weeks passed, and little Ivy came. Think how happy Hecla was. She
felt it to be a thousand million times better than having a present of
the biggest doll ever made—even a doll which could open and shut its
eyes, and would make a noise when pinched about the waist.
Her most ardent wish now—a wish which had grown stronger every day of
the three weeks—was to be trusted sometimes to take care of little Ivy.
She was always thinking about this. She wanted to be allowed really
to help with the child; to tie and untie her strings, to button and
unbutton her clothes; to amuse her; to keep her happy; to be a "little
mother" to Ivy. It was Aunt Anne who had put this last idea into
Hecla's head.
She had remarked, "Poor little Ivy will miss her dear mother so much!
We shall have to try our best to make up to her for that great loss!"
And then Hecla began to wonder if she could not act the part of a sort
of imitation-mother to Ivy.
It was in her busy little head that she would be so good, so sensible,
so careful, so unforgetful, that her aunts would feel sure they might
trust Ivy with her anywhere, out in the garden as well as indoors,
and even perhaps—wouldn't that be grand?—on the road as far as the
Vicarage, which really was only a few minutes away. What fun—if she
might be allowed sometimes to trot little Ivy round there, and to have
games with Chris in the nice Vicarage garden!
She thought and thought this over, in her funny absent fashion, during
the three weeks. And while she was planning hard about all that she
meant to be and to do in the future, her mind was quite away from
present duties, and more than ever she forgot all sorts of things which
she ought to have attended to each day.
Elisabeth was not going away. At first Miss Storey said that this would
have to be. She felt that she ought to find an older servant to look
after Ivy.
But everybody was unhappy at the thought. Elisabeth was such a
nice girl, so true and honest and careful and dependable and
conscientious—really, the number of virtues which had to be tacked to
her name was quite astonishing, when one came to count them over.
Miss Storey first spoke to Elisabeth about parting with her, three
or four days after it was settled that Ivy would come; and Elisabeth
simply cried and cried until her eyes nearly disappeared. And Hecla
cried, and Miss Anne cried, and the household generally became so
appallingly tearful, that poor Miss Storey, who cried as much as
anybody, was quite at her wits' end, and didn't know which way to turn.
Then old Mrs. Prue, who never cried, but showed her feelings by getting
fearfully cross and scolding everybody all round—even her mistresses,
and they always took it meekly, because they said it was just dear old
faithful Prue's way, and they supposed she wasn't feeling very well,
and ought to take a tonic—old Mrs. Prue made a suggestion.
She said she couldn't for the life of her see why in the world
Elisabeth shouldn't stay on, and take care of Miss Ivy. For her part,
she'd sooner have Elisabeth than a dozen of them giddy flaunting
girls, going about with red feathers in their hats and gaudy blue silk
blouses as was a disgrace to the parents that had brought them up. And
Elisabeth, if she was young, had got a head on her shoulders, and was
used to children in her own home; and she'd be willing to learn, which
was more than could be said for that other sort of girl; and if help
was wanted, why, she herself would be ready enough to lend a hand.
And while Hecla, who overheard all this, was wondering what a girl
would be like who hadn't any head on her shoulders, Miss Anne chimed
in with further entreaties, and said how she meant to do everything
herself for the little darling, and how she would dress and undress
her, and take her out and teach her to read. Aunt Millicent wanted
nothing more than to keep Elisabeth, for she hated new faces and new
ways. So at last it was settled, and Elisabeth's poor blistered face
became quite radiant with happiness.
"And I can help," Hecla said confidently. "I can button all the
buttonholes, can't I, Auntie Anne?—And lots of things besides."
"But you mustn't forget things, if you promise to do them," Miss Anne
warned her.
Hecla was perfectly sure that she never would forget any single thing
to do with Ivy. Miss Anne could not feel so sure, but she began to
hope that having Ivy in the house might in time really make Hecla more
careful.
The looked-for day came at last; and little Ivy was brought by her
mother, who stayed one night in "The Cottage."
There is no need, I think, to describe the parting next day. All who
have seen such partings know only too well what they mean. And Hecla
knew, for she had had to say a worse good-bye to her own dear mother,
less than two years before. Young as she was, she had not forgotten
that sad time.
Ivy was a tender-hearted, loving little child, and poor Mrs. Croft
tried hard for her sake not to give way; and Ivy, too, struggled not to
sob, because she had been told that it would distress her mother. But
when the fly had driven away, she cried most bitterly and seemed quite
broken-hearted. Hecla, who at first sight had tumbled over head and
ears in love with the little girl, was rather astonished that she could
not be comforted by either toys or "sweeties," which last Hecla had
bought with the saved-up pence of three weeks.
"Never mind, she will be better by-and-by," Aunt Anne whispered, as the
sobbing child turned away to hide her face on Miss Anne's shoulder.
Indeed, that was the only thing which seemed to comfort her—being held
tightly in those kind arms and petted and kissed.
But happily little children soon cheer up, and by next morning, though
she still looked forlorn and tears were near at hand, she was able to
take her breakfast, and to be interested in things around.
Hecla was allowed to leave her lessons and to play with Ivy, and she
did her very best. She brought her toys and sat on the ground putting
them out, and making lavish presents to the younger girl of anything
that Ivy seemed to admire. A good while passed pleasantly thus, and
then, when Ivy began to cry suddenly for "Mummie!" Miss Anne came and
sat down with them on the floor, and comforted her and told one or two
funny stories to make her smile.
"Now I think we might go for a walk," she said. "What do you think,
Ivy? Wouldn't that be nice?"
Hecla bounded up.
"And oh, auntie, may I button all the buttonholes?" she cried.
Miss Anne laughed at the droll way in which she expressed herself, and
Ivy asked seriously—
"Why-because does she want?"
Hecla gave Ivy a rapturous hug.
"Oh, you dear little pet!" she cried. "Auntie, may we go down by the
river? I want to show Ivy the bridge-part, and how boats go under and
out again."
"Yes, I think we can go there."
Hecla danced upstairs, turning round every other step to explain about
the river and the "bridge-part," as she called it, and Ivy followed
slowly, step by step, holding Miss Anne's hand. Hecla was allowed to
stand by, while Aunt Anne put on little Ivy's pretty blue walking-frock
and blue hat.
"Now you may button this, Hecla," she said.
And Hecla, who was not clever with her fingers, struggled till she was
scarlet in the face to get a rather difficult button into its hole.
She stopped at length in despair, and to their surprise Ivy's little
fingers did it at once quite deftly.
"Clever little thing!" Aunt Anne murmured.
"She's cleverer than me, isn't she—lots?" cried Hecla, overhearing what
she was not meant to hear.
"Mummie always lets me dress myself," said Ivy.
"Then you shall do it another day," promised Miss Anne.
It was a lovely spring day, early spring, yet warm and sunny. They went
outside the town; not towards the windmill, where Hecla had gone with
Elisabeth one day, but in another direction, past the Vicarage and the
old grey Church, and along a country road, with a little river beside
it.
Presently they reached a place where the river disappeared under the
road for a short distance, coming out soon on the other side. All this
covered part was arched over, just like a particularly wide bridge, and
that was what Hecla meant when she talked of the "bridge-part."
It was a grand play-place for the children of Nortonbury. They loved to
throw in sticks and small boughs and sometimes little wooden boats at
the upper end of the covered part, and then to rush to the lower end
and watch for the said sticks or boughs or boats to come out, carried
by a swift current through the long arch. The river just there was
both deeper and more rapid than elsewhere, because it had to flow in a
narrower channel.
Above the covered-over part the banks were steep; and the children
would stand at the edge and fling in their boats. But at the lower end,
there was a more shelving bank, so that they could easily climb down
to the water brink, and could take them out, if the boats floated near
enough.
Chris and his schoolfellows would often play here on their
half-holidays, when not engaged with cricket or football. Each would
launch a boat, half-a-dozen or a dozen being started at the same
moment; and then they would tear frantically down to the lower opening,
watching whose boat would appear first. Hecla loved to look on at such
times, if only she could persuade Miss Anne or Elisabeth to take her
there. She was delighted if Chris' boat came out first from under the
archway, and was disappointed if he failed to win. For Chris was her
chum and her hero, and the dearest and best boy that the world had ever
seen, in her opinion.
Chris was fond of Hecla too, but he did not tell her so, or condescend
to say pretty things to her. Ten years old is not an age when boys
flatter girls. He always let her know that she was "only a girl," and
that she couldn't be expected to do things so well as he could; and
Hecla regretfully agreed. She often wished that she had been a boy,
instead of only a girl.
On this particular occasion, when Miss Anne Storey and the two children
arrived at the spot, who should they find but Chris himself, all alone
for once, preparing to send a small boat on its voyage under the road.
And the astonishing thing was that he had hardly looked at little Ivy,
in her blue frock, with her long soft hair, and her small serious face,
before he seemed just as much taken with her as everybody else was. He
actually put his boat into her tiny plump hands, and allowed her to
throw it in herself while he stood close by, watching. And that was a
thing he had never allowed Hecla to do. He always seemed to think it
was quite honour and glory enough for Hecla, if she just stood by and
saw him doing it.
Hecla felt a wee bit sore and hurt in her mind, it must be confessed,
when she saw her chum actually leading the small newcomer to the edge
of the bank, holding her fast, lest she should slip, and guiding her
grasp as she threw the boat. Twice it fell short; and each time he
scrambled down the almost perpendicular bank, at the imminent risk of
rolling headlong into the water, brought it up, and made her try again.
And Hecla looked on, not jealous, for happily she was not a jealous
child, but just a little grieved to think that he had never taken the
trouble to do so much for her.
The boat, off at last, disappeared quickly under the arching road; and
he caught Ivy's hand and raced with her to the opening of the river
below. He ran down the shelving bank, still holding Ivy by the hand;
and as the boat floated out, he flung himself down flat, reaching out
to seize it.
Aunt Anne, rather in a fright lest Ivy should slip into the water,
hurried after them with Hecla; and they arrived in time to see Chris
lift Ivy up the bank and put his boat into her hands.
[Illustration: "Why—because is it mine?" she asked.]
"It's yours, if you like," he said.
Ivy's big brown eyes looked into his, wonderingly.
"Why-because is it mine?" she asked.
"Why—because I give it to you. It's yours, and you may keep it."
Ivy hugged the wet boat to her chest, not improving the blue frock. "I
love it," she said. "Thank you, kind boy."
Chris looked immensely gratified.
Then the same play was acted over again. Miss Anne kept running
alongside of the children, for she did not feel sure how far she might
trust Chris to be careful; yet she would not stop him. It was so nice
to see the little one's look of delight; and she seemed to turn so
prettily to Chris, almost more than she had yet been disposed to turn
to anyone except Aunt Anne herself.
"Chris likes Ivy," Hecla murmured, with a small sigh.
Miss Anne understood.
"Yes; and I think he is sorry for her, Hecla. That is nice of Chris.
Boys don't always trouble themselves to be kind to little girls who are
in trouble. I'm glad Chris does."
Hecla smiled and felt comforted. She loved to hear Chris praised.