PREPARATION.
"Well, Dorothy Dormouse!" exclaimed Canon Percival, when he came into
the drawing-room after dinner that evening.
"Don't call me Dorothy Dormouse, Uncle Crannie."
"Oh, but we call people what they are; and when little girls roll up
into a ball, and sleep away their time, they are like nothing so much
as--dormice."
"Mother has been telling you at dinner all about my dream, Uncle Crannie.
I know she has, else how do you know?"
"Oh, perhaps one of the swallows told me. I say, Dorothy, I have to talk
seriously to you for once. I am not joking this time."
Dorothy looked up in her uncle's face, and saw that he really did look
grave--almost sad.
"Before mother comes into the room, I want to tell you that Dr. Bell
thinks her cough is a bad cough, and that Coldchester is not the right
place for her to live in during the winter months. So poor Uncle Crannie
will be left alone all the long winter, and you must go with mother and
Ingleby to the sunny South--to Italy; think of that!"
"I don't want to go," said Dorothy. "I mean--I mean I don't want to
leave Puff and Muff and old Nino, and----"
"Poor old Uncle Crannie; but, my dear little niece, this is not a
question of what you _like_ or what you _want_. It is a question of what
is _right_ to do. Perhaps, little Dorothy, neither mother nor I have
taught you enough the meaning of the word duty. It means, what you owe
to others of service or love. Now, you owe it to your mother to be as
merry and happy as a bird; and, after all, many little girls would jump
for joy to be off to San Remo."
Dorothy was silent. "How long will it take to get there," she asked--"to
the sunny South?"
"Well, you won't go quite as fast as the swallows, but I daresay we
shall get there in less than a week; it depends upon the weather, and
upon how your mother bears the journey. You must ask God to-night to
bless your dear mother, and to make you a very good, helpful little
daughter to her. Will you do this?"
"Yes," Dorothy said--"yes, Uncle Crannie. Why won't you stay with us
there all the time?"
"Well! the cathedral might run away if I was not here to prevent it; and
what would the old Canons do if I deserted them?"
"You are the young Canon, I know," Dorothy said. "Ingleby says that's
what you are called."
"Ah!" said the Canon, rubbing his bald head, "there are degrees of
comparison, and I am afraid it is old, older, olderer, and oldest, in
the cathedral chapter. But I wanted to tell you that at San Remo you
will have playfellows--nice little girls and boys, who are living there
with their grandmother; and that is what we cannot find for you in
Coldchester."
"I don't want any little girls and boys," Dorothy said. "I shan't play
with them."
"Oh, nonsense! you will learn to play with them--Hoodman Blind, and Tom
Tickler's ground; won't that be jolly?"
Dorothy made no response, and her mother coming into the room, with her
shawl wrapped closely round her, she slipped down from her uncle's knee
and took up her position at her mother's feet, with one of the kittens
in her lap, saying--
"Read, mother; please read."
"Your mother can't read to-night, Dorothy," said the Canon, who had
taken up the _Times_. "She has coughed so much to-day, and is very
hoarse."
Dorothy pouted, and her mother, clearing her throat, said--
"Oh, I will try to finish the chapter we left unfinished last night.
That will not hurt me."
It was a pity that Dorothy was so seldom denied anything. It was simply
that there was no absolute necessity for refusing her what she asked,
and she had no idea yet that giving up her own will was a sweet gift the
youngest child may offer to her Father in heaven--the Father of the dear
Lord Jesus Christ, who offered Himself in life and in death for the
sinful, sad world He came to save. So Mrs. Acheson finished the chapter
of the story, and then it was time for Dorothy to go to bed, for Ingleby
appeared at the door, and said it was past eight o'clock, and much too
late for a little girl to be in the drawing-room.
I daresay you wish to know what Dorothy was like, and as she goes up the
wide staircase of Canon's House, she makes a very pretty picture. She
had long, silky, fair hair, which was not frizzed and crimped, but hung
down to her waist, and even below it, with soft, curled ends.
As Ingleby had no other child to look after, it was natural that she
should bestow much pains on Dorothy's appearance. She wore a pretty
white cashmere frock, with a wide rose-coloured sash, her black silk
stockings fitted her legs precisely, and her dainty shoes had pretty
buckles.
Puff and Muff had been sent to bed downstairs, and only old Nino was
allowed to come into the nursery. He was a favoured dog, and slept at
the foot of his little mistress's bed.
Dorothy went slowly upstairs, heedless of Ingleby's repeated "Come, my
dear, come!" And when at last they had reached the nursery, Dorothy
seated herself in the old rocking-chair, put her head back, and swinging
gently backwards and forwards, said seriously, almost solemnly--
"Jingle"--it was her pet name for her faithful nurse--"I hate 'playmates,'
as Uncle Crannie calls them. If I go to the sunny South, I shall not
play with any one."
"Well, that will be very uncivil, my dear, though, to be sure, you are
an odd child, for when the little Miss Thompsons and Master Benson came
to tea on your last birthday, it did not seem to make you happy."
"It made me miserable," said Dorothy. Then, with a sudden impulse, she
got up, and throwing her arms round her old friend's neck, she said, "I
want nobody but you and mother, and Puff and Muff, and Nino."
Ingleby was certainly flattered by her darling's preference, and took
her on her knee and undressed her as if she were seven months, instead
of nearly eight years old, and brushed and combed the silky hair with
great pride and pleasure. Dorothy's face was rather too thin and
colourless for childhood; but her features were regular, and her large,
blue eyes, shaded by dark lashes, were really beautiful.
"She is too much of a little woman," the Miss Thompsons' mother said;
"the child wants companions, and to be roused from her dreams;" while
Master Benson went away from the birthday party declaring it was slow
and stupid, and that Dorothy was a stiff starched little thing, and he
longed to shake her!
Dorothy could not remember her father; he had died when she was scarcely
a year old, and just at that time her uncle, Canon Percival, went to
live in Canon's House, at Coldchester, and invited his sister to come
and take up her abode there, with her little girl, and Ingleby, her
nurse.
Canon Percival was a bachelor, and till Dorothy came he had never had
much to do with children. His friends pitied him, and said that for the
most part children were noisy and troublesome, and that he would find
the peace of his house disturbed. But Dorothy--Dorothy Dormouse, as
he liked to call her--set these preconceived notions at defiance. She
was quiet and gentle, and she and her uncle Cranstone--Crannie, as she
called him--were great friends. She would sit on one of the red leather
chairs by her uncle, at his great writing table, and draw pictures by
the hour of birds, and butterflies, and flowers, and portraits, too--of
Miss Belinda, and Puff and Muff, and even of her uncle himself. Then she
would walk with him to the service in the cathedral, and sit demure and
quiet while the prayers were said and the organ rolled its waves of
music overhead.
The Canon's little niece was a great favourite with the old vergers,
though they would say, one to the other, that she was too wise and
knowing for a little one.
"It all comes of being with old people. There ain't enough of young life
about her. It's a thousand pities she has not some playmate."
So it seemed, you see, a general opinion that Dorothy wanted companions;
and when she got to the sunny South the companions were ready for her.
But it took some time to prepare for flight. People can get to the south
of France and Italy very quickly, it is true; but they are not like the
swallows, who don't want any luggage, and fly with no encumbrance.
Ingleby's preparations were very extensive indeed, and Dorothy had also
a great deal in hand. She had to put Barton Hall in order, for one
thing, and to put up a notice on the door that this house was to let
furnished. Then Belinda had to have a little travelling ulster and
warm hat, like her mistress's, and Puff and Muff had to be settled
comfortably in their new quarters; for though they did not sleep in
the nursery, they were there all day, and were carried about the house
by their little mistress, while Nino trotted behind. The preparations
were an amusement to Dorothy, and she began to feel that if anything
prevented her going to the sunny South, she would feel sorry and
disappointed after all!
Ingleby grew more and more serious as the time drew near. She murmured
a good deal about "foreign parts," and once Dorothy felt sure she heard
her say something about going away to die. Could these words possibly
refer to her mother? Poor little girl! She had lived so securely with
her mother, and had never been accustomed to think of her as apart from
her own comfort and pleasure, that a sharp pain shot through her heart
as she heard Ingleby's murmured words.
Once, too, when Ingleby thought she was asleep in the inner nursery, she
heard her talking in low tones to the housemaid.
"The child has no notion that her mamma is so ill. Childlike!" said
Ingleby.
"Well, I don't call it childlike," was the reply. "Miss Dorothy is not
childlike; she is just eaten up with herself."
"She is as dear a lamb as you could find anywhere," said Ingleby,
wrathfully; "a dear, sweet lamb. I suppose you like rampaging, noisy
children, like your own brothers and sisters in your mother's farmhouse?"
"I like children," said Susan, bravely, "to think of other folks a
little, as well as themselves. But there! it's not the poor child's
fault; everyone in the house spoils her, and you are the worst of all,
Mrs. Ingleby."
"I tell you what, Susan, I'd advise you, as a friend, to mind your own
business. If you are such a blind bat as not to see what Miss Dorothy
is--well, I am sorry for you, and I can't help it."
"I did not mean any offence, I am sure," said Susan, as she left the
nursery. "As I said, it's not the child's fault; but it would be hard
lines for her if she lost her mamma, and you too, Mrs. Ingleby."
A few minutes later, Ingleby was startled by the appearance of a little
white figure in the doorway.
"Jingle," she said, in a low, choking voice, "is--my--mamma so very ill?
I want to know."
"Ill? why, no. She has got a cough which shakes her rather. But, bless
your little heart--don't, Miss Dorothy, my sweet, don't."
For, in a passion of weeping, Dorothy had thrown herself into her
nurse's arms.
"Am I such a spoiled child?--am I, Jingle?"
"You are a dear little creature; nothing could spoil you. There, there;
let me put you back to bed. Don't cry."
But Dorothy did cry, and when Ingleby had left her at last, she buried
her face in the pillow, saying over to herself--
"Oh, is my mamma so ill? Will she die? Will she die? And I am such a
spoiled child. Oh dear, oh dear! I never thought of it before--never,
never."
There are times when many older people than little Dorothy catch
suddenly, as it were, a glimpse of their true selves, and are saddened
at the sight, with what results for the future depends upon the means
they take to cure themselves of their faults.
There is but one way for the children and for those who have left
childhood far behind--only one way--to watch and pray, lest they enter
into temptation.
[Illustration: Cat in a Basket]