A TRYING CHILD
'I think words are little live creatures,
A species of mischievous elves.'
_Child Nature._
Bride and Smuttie did not overtake Mrs. Vane and Rosalys, for they were
running towards the sea, whereas the others were walking straight along
the shore. But the dog's bark and the sound once or twice of the child's
voice speaking to him came clearly through the still winter air.
Mrs. Vane stopped for a moment and looked after them. She and Alie had
been talking about Bridget as they walked.
'There she is again,' said her mother, 'as merry and thoughtless as can
be. That is the worst of her, Alie, you can make no impression on her.'
'I don't think it's quite that, mamma,' Rosalys replied, 'though I know
it often seems so. She was really very, very sorry about her frock. And
she's so young--she's not eight yet, mamma.'
'You were quite different at eight,' answered Mrs. Vane. 'Just
think--that time I was so ill and papa was away. You were barely seven,
and what a thoughtful, careful little body you were! I shall never
forget waking up early one morning and seeing a little white figure
stealthily putting coal on the fire, which was nearly out; taking up the
lumps with its own little cold hands not to make a noise. My good little
Alie!' and she stroked the hand that lay on her arm fondly.
Rosalys smiled up at her. She loved her mother to speak so to her, but
still her heart was sore for Biddy.
'I believe--I _know_ Biddy would be just as loving to you, mamma, if she
knew how,' she said. 'But it is true that she's very provoking. Perhaps
it would be different if she had brothers and sisters younger than
herself--then she'd _have_ to feel herself big and--as if it mattered
what she did.'
'Responsible, you mean,' said Mrs. Vane. 'Yes, that is the best
training. But we can't provide small brothers and sisters ready-made for
Biddy, and I am very well contented with the three I have got! It might
be a good thing if she had some companions nearer her own age, but even
that has its difficulties. Just think of the scrapes she got into that
time I sent her to your aunt's for a fortnight! Why, she was sent home
in disgrace for--what was it for--I forget? Biddy's scrapes are so
many.'
'For taking the two smallest children to bathe in the pond before
breakfast, wasn't it?' said Alie.
'Oh yes--after having half killed their valuable Persian cat by feeding
it with cheese-cakes, or something of the kind,' added Mrs. Vane.
But she could not help smiling a little. Alie had already seen that she
was softening; whenever mamma called Bridget 'Biddy,' she knew it was a
good sign.
'There is one comfort,' said the elder sister, in her motherly way,
'Biddy has a _terribly_ kind heart. She is never naughty out of--out of
_naughtiness_. But oh, mamma, let us wait a minute; the sunset is
beginning.'
And so indeed it was. Over there--far out, over the western sea, the
cold, quiet, winter sea, the sun was growing red as he slowly sank, till
he seemed to kiss the ocean, which glowed, blushing, in return. It was
all red and gray to-night--red and gray only, though there were grandly
splendid sunsets at Seacove sometimes, when every shade and colour which
light can show to our eyes shone out as if a veil were drawn back from
the mysterious glory we may but glimpse at. But the red and gray were
very beautiful in their way, and the unusual stillness, broken only by
the soft monotonous lap, lap, of the wavelets as they rippled themselves
into nothing on the sand, seemed to suit the gentle tones of the sky.
And some way off, nearer the sea, seeming farther away than they really
were, as they stood right in the ruddy trail of light, were two little
figures, both looking black by contrast, though in point of fact only
one was so. They were Bridget and Smut, both apparently absorbed in
admiring the sunset.
'Isn't it beautiful, Smuttie?' Biddy was saying. 'It's the sun going to
bed, you know, dear.'
Smut wagged his tail.
'It's so pretty,' she continued, 'that it makes me think I'd like to be
good. P'raps I'd better fix to try again after all--what do you think,
Smut?'
Repeated and more energetic tail-wagging, accompanied this time by a
short sharp bark. Smut has had enough of the sunset and standing still;
he wants to be off again. But Bride interprets his response in her own
way.
'You think it would be better?--thank you, dear, for saying so. You are
so nice, Smut, for always understanding. Well, I will then, and I'll
begin by telling mamma I'm dreadfully sorry about my frock. Good-night,
sun--I wish I lived out in the lighthouse--one could see the sun right
down in the sea out there, I should think. I wonder if he stays in the
sea all night till he comes up at the other side in the morning? No--I
don't think he can though, for it says in my jography that it's sunshine
at the other side of the world when it's night here, so he can't stay in
the sea. I must ask Alie--p'raps it's not the same sun as in London.'
She turned, followed by Smut, who, failing to persuade her to another
scamper, consoled himself by poking his nose into the sand in search of
unknown dainties which I fear were not to be found. The pair came up to
Mrs. Vane and Rosalys, who seemed to be waiting for them.
'Mamma,' Biddy began, in a very contrite tone, 'I've been thinking and
I want to tell you I am truly and really very, _very_ sorry about my
frock. I didn't mean not to seem sorry. I can't think how it got torn,
for Alie didn't tear hers, and she was playing about just the same.'
'I don't know either, Biddy,' said her mother. 'It is just the old
story, you must be more careful. Perhaps, to go back to the beginning,
it would have been better to change to an old frock if you meant to romp
about; _or_, it would have been better still perhaps, not to romp when
you knew you had a good frock on.'
'That was my fault, mamma,' Alie put in.
'Well, we must try and get the mischief repaired, and let us hope it
will be a reminder to you, Biddy, every time you wear this frock.'
Bridget murmured something; she meant to be very good. But when she got
a little behind her mother and Alie again she gave herself a shake.
'I shouldn't like that at all,' she thought. 'I should hate this frock
if it was always to remind me. I think mamma is rather like the mamma in
_Rosamund_ when she speaks that way, and I'm like Rosamund on her day of
misfortunes, only all my days are days of misfortunes. But I do think
I'm nicer than she was.'
As they reached the edge of the shore, where a gate opened into a
pathway through a field to the Rectory itself, Mrs. Vane stopped to look
across once more at the sunset.
'Yes, he is just going--just. Look, children.'
Alie turned too, but Biddy walked on.
'I don't want to look again,' she said. 'I've said good-night to him
once.'
Mrs. Vane glanced at Rosalys.
'What's the matter now?' her glance seemed to say.
Rosalys smiled back.
'It isn't naughtiness,' she whispered. 'It's only some fancy.'
And so it was.
'I said good-night to him when I'd fixed to try to be good,' Bride was
saying to herself, 'and if I look at him again now it'll undo the
fixing. Besides, I've begun to feel a little naughty again already--I
don't like Rosamund's mamma.'
As they walked up the path, Smut, who was really Mrs. Vane's dog and had
got his own ideas as to etiquette, returned to his mistress's side and
trotted along gravely. He knew that his chances of scampers were over
for the day, for not even the most ardent runner could have crossed the
field at full speed without coming to grief. It was rough and stony,
and to call it a field was a figure of speech; the soil was nothing but
sand, and the grass was of the coarsest. But the Rectory stood on rather
rising ground, and old Dr. Bunton and his wife had fortunately been fond
of gardening. The lawn on the farther side of the house was very
respectable, and more flowers and shrubs had been coaxed to grow than
could have been expected. Still, to newcomers fresh from a comfortable
town-house--and there is no denying that as far as comfort goes a
town-house in winter has many advantages over a small country one--it
did look somewhat dreary and desolate. All the brightness had gone out
of the sky by now; it loomed blue-gray behind the chimneys, and a faint
murmuring as of wind in the distance getting up its forces began to be
heard.
Mrs. Vane shivered a little.
'I do hope your father and Randolph will be in soon,' she said. 'It may
be very mild here, but it strikes me as chilly all the same. I really
don't think it is wise to stay out so late, and it has been so almost
unnaturally still all day, I shouldn't wonder if it was setting in for
stormy weather.'
Biddy's eyes sparkled.
'I would so like,' she was beginning, but she suddenly checked herself.
'Are there always shipwrecks when there's storms?' she asked.
'I fear so,' her mother replied.
'Then I mustn't like storms, I suppose,' said the child. 'It's very
tiresome--everything's made the wrong way.'
'Bridget, take care what you're saying,' Mrs. Vane said almost sternly.
Biddy's face did not pucker up, but a dark look came over it, taking
away all the pleasant brightness and the merry eagerness of the gray
eyes. She did not often look like that, fortunately, for it made her
almost ugly. And though her face cleared a little after a while, still
it was gloomy, like the darkening sky outside, when she followed Alie
downstairs to tea, after they had taken off their things and the torn
frock had been changed.
Things had hardly got into their regular order yet at Seacove Rectory.
The Vanes had only been there three days, and every one knows that the
troubles of a removal, especially to a considerable distance, are very
much aggravated when it takes place in midwinter. It was not to be
wondered at that 'mamma' felt both tired and rather dispirited. She was
a little homesick too, for mammas can feel homesick as well as both boys
and girls; and indeed I would not take upon myself to say that 'papas'
are quite above this weakness either. Christmas time had been spent at
Mrs. Vane's old home, a warm, cheery, old-fashioned country-house, where
grandpapa and grandmamma were still hale and hearty, and never so happy
as when surrounded by their grandchildren. This old home of mamma's was
within easy access of London too; no wonder, therefore, that the remote
seaside rectory seemed a kind of exile to Mrs. Vane, though the reasons
that had made Mr. Vane accept the offer of Seacove had been very
important ones.
Rosalys, and Randolph too, though in a less thoughtful way, understood
all this, and both of the elder children were anxious to help and cheer
their parents to the best of their ability. And as all children love
change, and most children enjoy, for a time at least, the freedom and
independence of the country, it was much less trying for them than for
their father and mother. To Bridget the idea of coming to live
altogether at the seaside was one of unmixed pleasure. She dearly loved
the sea, and all she had hitherto known of it was in pleasant summer
weather, and at a bright amusing little place called Rockcliffe.
Seacove was certainly not exactly what she had expected; still,
sand-hills and a great stretch of splendid shore were not to be
despised. I feel sure, however, that young as she was she would have
sympathised with her mother, and tried 'extra' hard not to vex her, had
she known more about it all. But very little had been explained to her;
indeed, Rosalys had been forbidden to say much about the reasons for the
change to her little sister. 'She is such a baby for her age, and so
heedless,' said Mrs. Vane. In treating Bride thus, I think her mother
made a mistake.
The children's tea was laid out in the dining-room, for the schoolroom
was still in a chaotic state, and Miss Millet, the governess, was not
coming back for another week yet. And in the meantime mamma, and papa
too, sometimes had tea with the little girls and Randolph.
The fire was burning brightly and the table looked inviting when Mrs.
Vane came downstairs. Alie had hurried down to see to it all; she knew
what a difference a little care makes sometimes--how a crumpled-looking
table-cloth or untidily placed dishes will add to low spirits when any
one is not feeling as bright and cheerful as usual. There were still
some of grandmamma's good things, which she had had packed in a hamper
for the first start at the new rectory--home-made cakes and honey and
fresh butter, the very sight of which made one hungry!
Rosalys glanced at her mother, and was pleased to see that the sweet
face looked rather brighter and less anxious as she stood for a moment
at the fire warming her hands.
'There is one comfort in this house, inconvenient though it is in many
ways,' said Mrs. Vane, 'the chimneys don't smoke. And close to the sea
as it is, one could scarcely have wondered if they had done so. If only
it really does your father as much good as the doctors said, I am sure
I shall get to like it.'
'Yes indeed,' Alie agreed. 'Mamma dear, won't you sit down and let me
pour out your tea?'
'The wind is really rising,' said Mrs. Vane. 'I wish they would come
in--papa and Rough. It would be such a pity if he caught cold,' she
added with a little sigh.
Something in the tone and the sigh caught Biddy's attention. She was
sitting at the table more silent than usual, very much absorbed, in
fact, with her own grievances. What did mamma mean?
'Is papa ill?' she asked abruptly.
Alie glanced at her, frowning slightly. Her mother turned quickly.
'What a strange question to ask, Bride,' she said; 'it is just like
you--you cannot but know that papa is not at all strong.'
Biddy looked puzzled. 'Strong' to her meant vaguely being able to lift
heavy weights, or things of that kind.
'I didn't know he was _ill_,' she replied. 'I didn't know big people
were ill except for going to die, like our 'nother grandmamma. Papa's
had the measles and chicken-pox when he was little, hasn't he? I thought
it was only children that could be ill to get better like that.'
Mrs. Vane glanced at Rosalys in a sort of despair. But before Alie could
say anything to smooth matters, her mother called Bridget from her seat
and made her stand before her.
'Bridget,' she said, 'I don't know what to say to you. Have you no heart
or feeling at all? How _can_ you say such things. I do not believe in
your not understanding; you can understand when you choose, and you are
nearly eight years old. You must know how miserably anxious I have been
and still am about your father; you _must_ know it is for his health we
have come to this strange, dreary place, away from every one we care
for, and you can talk in that cold-hearted, cold-blooded way about dying
and not getting better and--and----' Mrs. Vane's voice trembled and
quivered. She seemed almost as if she were going to cry. Alie came and
stood beside her, gently putting her arm round her mother and looking
daggers at Bride. Mamma was nervous and over-tired, she knew; she had
had so much to go through lately. How could Biddy be so naughty and
unfeeling? And yet, as the words passed through her mind, Rosalys
hesitated. Biddy was not really unfeeling--it was not the word for her.
It was more as if she would not take the trouble to feel or to
understand anything that was not her own special concern; there was a
queer kind of laziness about her, which led to selfishness. It was as if
her mind and heart were asleep sometimes.
But she could feel. Her face was all puckered up now; there was no
temper or sullenness about it, but real pale-faced distress.
'Mamma,' she said brokenly, 'I didn't, oh, truly, I didn't mean it that
way. I know papa isn't old enough to die; but I thought he was too big
to be ill like that.'
'Biddy,' said Alie sternly, 'you are talking nonsense again. You know
big people are ill often, and sometimes they get better and sometimes
they die. Don't you remember Mrs. Hay--Meta Hay's mamma? She was ill
and----'
'Yes, I quite forgot,' exclaimed Biddy eagerly; 'I didn't think. Yes,
Meta's mamma was very ill, and she died. I wish I'd remembered; and she
wasn't at all old like Grandmamma Vane.'
She spoke almost cheerfully. Again Mrs. Vane glanced at her elder
daughter.
'It's no use,' she was beginning, but Alie interrupted. How she wished
the unfortunate Mrs. Hay had not been the first instance to occur to
her!
'_Children_ get ill and die too sometimes,' Alie went on, 'and big
people very often get better. There was Captain Leonard next door to us
at home----'
'And--I know--the boy-that-brought-the-potatoes' papa,' cried Biddy. 'I
_am_ so glad I thought of him. I was in the kitchen one morning fetching
sand for Tweetums's cage and he came in, and cook asked how was his
papa, and he said, "Finely better, I thank ye, mum." I think cook said
he was a _Hirish_ boy,' Bridget hurried on in her excitement--and when
she was excited I am afraid her 'h's' were apt to suffer--Mrs. Vane
gasped! 'I am _so_ glad I thought of him. Papa will get better like the
potato boy's father. I'll say it in my prayers. Dear mamma, I won't
forget. And I _will_ try to be good and not tear my frocks nor speak
without thinking.'
The tears were coming now, but Biddy knew mamma did not like her to
begin to cry, and truly it was no wonder, for once she began it was by
no means easy to say when she would leave off! She choked them down as
well as she could. And the little face, hot and flushed now, was timidly
raised to her mother's for a kiss of forgiveness.
It was not refused, but a sigh accompanied it, which went to the child's
heart. But there was no time for more, as at that moment the hall door
was heard to open and Mr. Vane's and Rough's voices sounded outside.
Quite subdued, desperately penitent, Bridget went back to her place. Her
head was full as well as her heart. She had so many things to think over
that she felt as if she could not eat. First and foremost was the
strange newly awakened anxiety about her father. She looked at him as he
came in as she had never looked at him before, almost expecting to see
some great and appalling change in his appearance. But no--he seemed
much as usual--his face was indeed reddened a little by his brisk walk
in the chill air, and his voice was as cheery as ever. Biddy gave a
loud, most audible sigh of relief. Mr. Vane started and interrupted
himself in the middle of a lively account of the adventures he and
Randolph had met with in their walk.
'My dear Biddy,' he said. 'What _can_ you have to sigh about in that
appalling way?'
Bridget opened her mouth as if to speak, but Rosalys, trembling as to
what she might not be going to say, interrupted.
'Please, papa, don't ask her just now,' she said; 'do go on telling us
about what sort of a place Seacove is,' and she added in a whisper, as
she gave a little private tug to his sleeve, 'Biddy's been
rather--tiresome, and if she begins to cry----'