THE SCORED-OUT NAME.
"How new life reaps what the old life did sow."
EDWIN ARNOLD.
I was the naughty one of the family. I dare say you--whoever you
are--that are going to read this will have found this out already, and
it was best to make it plain at the beginning. Tib and Gerald were
really very good--at least, they would have been if I had let them. But
still, as I used often to say to them as a sort of a make-up for the
troubles I got them into, it _would_ have been rather dull work had we
all three been extra good. And even the great thing that I have to write
about, _the_ thing that put it into my head to write at all, would never
have come but for our being in a way naughty--that is very queer, isn't
it? To think that good and nice things should sometimes come out of
being naughty! I have often puzzled about it. I think it must be that
there are different kinds of naughtiness--_perfectly_ different--for
nothing good could come out of real, wicked naughtiness--telling lies,
or being cruel to each other, or things like that; but the sort of
naughtiness of just being mischievous, and of being so bubbling over
with the niceness of being alive, that you _can't_ keep quiet, and
remember about not knocking things over and tearing yourself, and the
naughtiness of hating your lessons on a beautiful day, when it's really
too tempting out-of-doors--all these kinds of naughtiness and lots of
others I could tell you, for I've thought so much about it--all these
kinds are different, surely? And one can fancy good and nice things
coming out of them without getting one's ideas muddled. That's one thing
I'm going to be very particular about with my children--I'm going to
explain to them _well_ about the two kinds of being naughty, so that
they won't get all into a puzzle about it. I think I even shall settle
to have two kinds of words for them; for I do know, I am sorry to say,
what it is to be really naughty too. Just a few times in my life I can
remember the dreadful feeling of real, boiling anger at some one--I had
it several times to Miss Evans, and once or twice to--no, I won't say;
it's all so different now. And _once_ I told what wasn't true, quite
knowing all about it. But I _never_ did it again. The horribleness of
the feeling was too bad, and in _that_ way my naughtiness did me good!
Our plan for getting Miss Evans to help us to a holiday hadn't much
chance, as you shall hear.
When we got to the school-room we found she hadn't come, though it was
a quarter to ten, and she generally came at half-past nine.
"Everything seems going topsy-turvy to-day," said I, seating myself on
the high guard, and swinging my feet about. It was a very dangerous
seat, as the guard was anything but steady, and if it toppled over,
there was no saying but that you might be landed in the middle of the
fire. "Miss Evans late--and us going away to a place we never heard of
before! It's almost as nice as if the sun had forgotten to get up--what
fun that would be!"
"I don't think that would be fun at all," said Gerald. "I'd much rather
he should forget to go to bed some night. Which would you rather, Tib?"
But Tib wasn't listening. She was pressing her face against the window,
her thoughts intent upon primroses again.
"Hush!" she said; "I'm sure I heard him. He can't be far off yet, or
else it's another man. Listen." And as she held up her finger there came
softly through the distance again the "All a growing, all a blowing."
"I wonder why things seem so much prettier far off," said Tib,
thoughtfully. But just then the cry came again, and this time
unmistakably nearer. Off darted Tib. "I will try to get Fanny to catch
him," she said; and in five minutes she was back again in triumph.
"Fanny wasn't to be found, of course," she said. "But that good Liddy
poked up the little page-boy--he's new, so he hasn't learnt to be
impudent yet--and sent him down the street. We shall have the primroses
directly. Oh, I say, Gussie and Gerald"--and Tib flung herself down on
the hearth-rug, and rolled herself over, as if she were on a lawn of
beautiful fresh grass--"just fancy if we were in the country, and could
gather primroses for ourselves--as many as ever we wanted. _Wouldn't_ it
be lovely?"
"Perhaps we may--perhaps they won't be over when we go to that place,"
said Gerald.
"I wonder when exactly we shall go?" I said. And then our thoughts all
returned to Rosebuds, and what our grandfather had said about it.
"I wonder why he doesn't want us to make friends with any of the
neighbours?" I said. "I think it's rather crabby of him. There may
be some nice children there, and we never have any playfellows."
"I suppose he's got some reason for it," said Tib. "Perhaps the people
who live there are all very common. You know, grandpapa is right to be
particular about us."
"I don't think it is that. I think he has some other reason. Tib, do you
know," I exclaimed, as a curious idea flashed across my mind, "I have an
idea that----"
But I was interrupted before I could say more by the entrance of old
Liddy, bringing the primroses. They were not very big bunches, but they
were very sweet and fresh, and we all sniffed at them in a way that
must have astonished the poor things. Nurse smiled at us.
"I'd like to see you gathering them for yourselves, my dears," she said.
"Well, we shall, perhaps, if we go to the country so soon. Do you know
that place where we're going to, Liddy?" asked Tib.
She shook her head--she had come to us from mamma's family, and she
didn't know much about the Ansdells.
"No, Miss Tib. I never heard of it till your grandpapa told me last
night about getting you ready. And that reminds me--Bland told me just
now that his master forgot to say Miss Evans wouldn't be coming to-day."
"Miss Evans not coming to-day!" we all three exclaimed in the greatest
astonishment, for it must be confessed Miss Evans was the most exact
person possible. "Is she never coming any more, Liddy?"
Nurse shook her head.
"Nay, my dear, how should I know? I only heard what Bland said. Miss
Evans isn't coming with us to the country, master said."
"But he's going to get another," said Gerald. "Will she be just
_exactly_ the same--will she have a big freckle on her cheek, and will
she nip up her mouth the same, do you think, nursey?"
We all burst out laughing at poor Gerald.
"It would quite spoil Rosebuds to have the big freckle there," said Tib.
"But, nursey, do you know grandpapa says we're not to make any friends
there, and not to know anybody?"
This time Liddy nodded her head.
"I know, my dears. Well, it can't be helped. It'll be no duller for you
there than at Ansdell Friars, any way, and it's a beautiful country for
walks, cook says. She comes from somewhere that way."
"But why does grandpapa not want us to know anybody there--do you know,
nursey? Does cook know, perhaps?"
Liddy looked uncomfortable.
"My dears, there may be reasons for many things that you're too young to
understand," she said. "If your grandpapa had wanted to give his reasons
to you, he'd have done so himself; and if he didn't wish to give you
any, it would ill become me to be telling you over any fancies or
chatter I might hear about master's affairs."
Tib's eyes grew very round.
"I do believe there's a mystery," she said. "Oh, how beautiful! Nursey,
I'm sure you know something. What fun it would be if there was really a
mystery, and if we were to find it out. Gussie, do listen."
But I wouldn't listen just that minute. The thought which had been put
out of my mind by nurse coming in with the primroses had come back
again.
"Wait a minute, Tib," I said, "I've got an idea. I'm only going down to
the library to fetch a book. I may go as Miss Evans isn't coming;" and
off I flew.
The library was not a large room--indeed, it was a good deal smaller
than grandpapa's study--but it held a great many books. It was nothing
but books, for there were shelves all round it, packed as close as they
could hold. In one corner were all the books that grandpapa allowed us
to read. He had shown them to us himself, and simply told us we might
read any of them we liked, provided we always put them back again in
their places, but that we mustn't ever take any other books without
asking his leave. That was one thing grandpapa was very nice about;
though he was so cold and strict, he always trusted us, and never
doubted our words. I'm sure that is the best way to make children quite
truthful. Except that one time I've told you of, I don't remember any of
us telling a story. It didn't seem to come into our heads to do so--we
had been with grandpapa ever since we could remember, and he had always
been the same. We had never known what it was to be loved or petted,
except by Liddy, for both papa and mamma had died of a fever in Spain,
and we had been sent home with old nurse. (I suppose I should have
explained this at the beginning; but it doesn't matter.)
Well, I ran down to the library and went straight to our own corner.
They were funny-looking books--mostly rather shabby, for they had been
children's books for two, and some of them for three, generations. It
took me a little while to find the one I was in search of; indeed, I
wasn't quite sure which it was, and I had to take out several, and open
them to see the page at the beginning before I got the right one. It
was a small book; the name of it was _Ornaments Discovered_, and on the
first leaf was written the name of the person it had belonged to. There
were two names, but the first had been so scored through that one could
only distinguish the first letter of it, which was "R," and the second
name was our name and grandpapa's name, "Ansdell." And lower down on the
page was the date, and the name of a place just above it. But this name
also had been scored through, only not so blackly as the other, so that
it was still easy to make out that it was that of the house we were
going to live at: "Rosebuds."
I remembered it quite well now--I had often puzzled over the writing in
this book, and though I had never made out the name before, "Ansdell,"
I remembered having read that the other was "Rosebuds." I understood now
a sort of feeling I had had when grandpapa had told us the name that
morning, that I had heard it before--or, as it turned out, _seen_ it
before.
I rushed up stairs with the little red book in my hand.
"Tib," I said, looking and feeling very excited, "just look at this."
Up jumped Tib--she had been down on the floor arranging the primroses
in some little glasses that we always kept on the mantelpiece for any
flowers that came our way. Liddy had left the room, and Gerald had gone
with her. We leant over the book together.
"You see?" I said, pointing to the word above the date.
"Yes," said Tib; "it's certainly 'Rosebuds.' I suppose grandpapa had it
when he was a little boy, there."
"Oh, you stupid!" I exclaimed. "You're always wanting to make up
wonderful stories of adventures and mysteries, and now, when I've found
you a real mystery, all ready made, you won't see it. If it had just
been grandpapa's book, what would he have scored the name out for?
Besides, you know very well that his name is 'Gerald,' like papa and
Gerald. And _this_ name begins with a 'R.'"
Tib had taken the book in her own hands by this time, and was peering at
it.
"You may call me stupid, if you like," she said, "but I've found out
something else. The name is 'Regina'--my second name;" for Tib's whole
name was Mercedes Regina. "Mercedes Regina Ansdell"--isn't that an
awfully grand name for a little girl? She was a little girl then.
I seized the book in my turn. Sure enough, now that Tib had put the
idea into my head, it seemed quite plain--even through the very thick
crossing-out one could see the confused shapes of the word "Regina."
"You're right, Gussie," said Tib; "there _is_ a mystery. You remember
that time that grandpapa was grumbling at my name--like he did this
morning--and I said, 'Mightn't I be called by my second name?' how he
snapped out, 'No, certainly not.' It frightened me so, I remember. There
must have been somebody called 'Regina Ansdell' that he didn't like, or
he was angry with, or _something_. Oh! how I do wonder who she was, and
why he has never told us about her?"
"We might ask nurse," I said. "I am sure she knows something--for
you see, this Regina Ansdell must have lived at Rosebuds, and it's
something about there that Liddy has heard, and won't tell us. And I
shouldn't wonder if it has to do with grandpapa's not wanting us to
know any of the people there."
"What can it be?" said Tib, her eyes growing bigger and rounder.
"There can't surely be any one shut up there--a mysterious lady called
'Regina.' Oh, no, that can't be it, for grandpapa would never take us
there if there were. Besides--though he's rather frightening and
strict--grandpapa's not bad and wicked."
"The Queen wouldn't let him be in the Parliament if he were," said I.
"At least, I _suppose_ not."
"It's good of him to have all of us living with him. Nursey says it is.
I don't think we've got any money of our own."
"Well, we're his grandchildren, and it isn't our fault that papa and
mamma died," I said. "I don't think _that's_ so very good of him.
Still, he is good to us in some ways, I know."
Tib was still staring at the book.
"I don't think it's any use asking nurse," she said. "If she does know
anything she doesn't want to tell us. And it's no use telling Gerald:
he's too little. If we told him not to speak of it, he'd very likely get
red the first time grandpapa looked at him--like that day you filled the
hood of Miss Evans' waterproof with peas, and he kept staring at it all
the time of our lessons, till she found out there was something the
matter."
"No," said I; "it's better not to tell him. Of course, Tib, we mustn't
do anything _naughty_. It would be naughty to go prying into grandpapa's
secrets, if he has any. But what we've found out hasn't been with
prying. It's impossible not to _wonder_ a little about it. And it's
grandpapa's own fault for telling us so sharply not to know anybody or
speak to anybody at Rosebuds. Of course, we'll obey him, but we can't
help our minds wondering--they're made to wonder."
Tib considered for a while. Then her face cleared.
"I'll tell you what we can do, Gussie," she said; "we can turn it into
a play. We can't leave off wondering, as you say, but we can mix up our
wondering with fancy, and make up a plan of how it all was. It will be
_very_ interesting, for we shall know there _is_ something real, and
yet we can make it more wonderful than anything real could be now
that everything's grown so plain and--and--I don't know the word--the
opposite of poetry and fairy stories, I mean--in the world. We must
think about it, Gussie. We might make it an 'ancient times' story, or
an ogre story, or----"
"Yes," I said, "we'll think about it."
I did not want to disappoint Tib, and I thought, in a way, it was rather
a good idea. But I am not so fond of fancying or pretending as Tib--I
like real things. And the idea of a real secret or mystery had taken
hold of my mind, and I wanted to find out about it. Still, the making a
play of it wasn't a bad idea. As Tib said, it would be more interesting
than an altogether make-up play.
We didn't say anything about the name in the book to Liddy. It was no
use worrying the poor old thing by teasing her about what she thought
would be wrong to tell; even if it had not anything to do with our
mystery, it would have been wrong and unkind of _us_. And we said
nothing to Gerald either; and indeed for some days we did not think or
speak much about our discovery even to each other; we were so very much
taken up about the real preparing to go away.
It was much more of a nice bustle and fuss than it had ever been to go
to Ansdell Friars. There, everything was left from year to year just
as we had always had it. The rooms had all we needed, and there was
very little besides our clothes to pack up and take. But for going to
Rosebuds it was quite different. None of the servants had ever been
there, and they were all in a to-do about it, especially as only about
half of them were to go; and the other half were cross at being sent
away, and kept telling the others they'd be sure to find everything
wrong there.
Nurse was the only one who was really pleased to go; and I am sure, dear
old thing, it was more for our sakes than her own.
"It'll be a real change for them, poor dears," she kept saying; and this
gave her patience to bear all our teasing and the servants' grumbling.
What a time she had of it, to be sure! From Gerald's "Nursey, may I take
_all_ my horses? If I leave Sultan in the cupboard won't the mouses and
butterflies eat him?"--Gerald always called moths butterflies--"Will
there be any wheelbarrows, like at Ansdell?" to Fanny's suggestion that
there'd be no nursery tea-service there--"a house that nobody's been
in for years and years"--everything fell on old Liddy! And you see she
dared not go asking grandpapa all sorts of things, as if he'd been a
lady. He was even rather cross when she went trembling one day to ask
if there were shops anywhere near Rosebuds, or if she must plan to take
everything we could want for all the summer.
"Shops," said grandpapa--I heard him, for Liddy had caught him on
his way down stairs one morning, and I was standing just inside the
school-room doorway; "of course there are shops near enough--five miles
off or so. I'm not going to take you to the middle of Africa. I dare say
there are shops enough in the village for common things. Mrs. Munt will
tell you all that. No need to worry me about it."
"Mrs. Munt!" I had never heard that name before. I pricked up my ears,
but I was dreadfully afraid that Liddy would be too frightened to
ask any more. To my satisfaction I heard her meek old voice again:
"And who may Mrs. Munt be, sir, if you please?"
At this grandpapa stopped short and looked at her--I couldn't see him,
but I _felt_ him stop short and look at her. Poor Liddy!
"Upon my soul!" he said. Then some reflection seemed to strike him, for
his next words were more amiable.
"Mrs. Munt is the housekeeper at Rosebuds. She's been there ever since
_I_ can remember. You didn't suppose I was going to trust to that Mary
Ann's cooking?" Mary Ann was the kitchen-maid. She was coming with us,
but not the cook, who was leaving to be married. "Mrs. Munt is, or used
to be, a very good cook, and a very good sort of person altogether."
"Oh, thank you, sir," said Liddy very heartily. Mrs. Munt was a great
relief to her mind, for the idea of Mary Ann's cooking on the days that
"master" came down to Rosebuds had been weighing on it. To me the idea
of Mrs. Munt brought back the thought of the mystery. If she had been
there as long as _grandpapa_ could remember, what must she not know?
I flew off to Tib with the news, but she did not receive it with much
interest.
"An old cook!" she said disdainfully. "Why, that would spoil it all.
It wouldn't matter so much for an ogre story, if we could fancy her a
witch, but for an 'ancient times' one, it would never do."
"Oh, bother!" I exclaimed, "I don't want pretending. I want to know
about it really. If you only wanted make-ups, you can always get
things that will do for them. I am sure Miss Evans would have been a
_beautiful_ witch! Oh, Tib, aren't you glad she isn't coming any more?"
For Miss Evans had left off coming altogether. She was going to begin a
school--how we pitied the scholars!--and had asked grandpapa to let her
off at once. She came to say good-bye to us, and gave us each a present
of a book--and, to our surprise, there were tears in her eyes when she
kissed us! People are really very queer in this world--they never seem
to care for things till they know they are not going to have them any
more. We all felt rather ashamed that we couldn't cry too, and Tib said
she was afraid we must have very little feeling, which made Gerald and
me quite unhappy for a while.
All the same, we weren't at all in a hurry to hear of the new "Miss
Evans."