"Ripping--oh, ripping! And now tell me my fortune."
Alice took off her veil and looked at his hand.
"You will travel in distant lands," she said; "you will have great
wealth and honour; you will marry a beautiful lady--a very fine woman,
it says in the book, but I think a beautiful lady sounds nicer, don't
you?"
[Illustration: "WE'VE GOT MUSICAL INSTRUMENTS," SAID NOEL.]
"Much; but I shouldn't mention the book when you're telling the
fortune."
"I wouldn't, except to you," said Alice, "and she'll have lots of money
and a very sweet disposition. Trials and troubles beset your path, but
do but be brave and fearless and you will overcome all your enemies.
Beware of a dark woman--most likely a widow."
"I will," said he, for Alice had stopped for breath. "Is that all?"
"No. Beware of a dark woman and shun the society of drunkards and
gamblers. Be very cautious in your choice of acquaintances, or you will
make a false friend who will be your ruin. That's all, except that you
will be married very soon and live to a green old age with the beloved
wife of your bosom, and have twelve sons and----"
"Stop, stop!" said the gentleman; "twelve sons are as many as I can
bring up handsomely on my present income. Now, look here. You did that
jolly well, only go slower, and pretend to look for things in the hand
before you say them. Everything's free at the _fete_, so you'll get no
money for your fortune-telling."
Gloom was on each young brow.
"It's like this," he went on, "there is a lady fortune-teller in a tent
in the park."
"Then we may as well get along home," said Dicky.
"Not at all," said our new friend, for such he was now about to prove
himself to be; "that lady does not want to tell fortunes to-day. She has
a headache. Now, if you'll really stick to it, and tell the people's
fortunes as well as you told mine, I'll stand you--let's see--two quid
for the afternoon. Will that do? What?"
We said we should just jolly well think it would.
"I've got some Eau de Cologne in a medicine-bottle," Dora said; "my
brother Noel has headaches sometimes, but I think he's going to be all
right to-day. Do take it, it will do the lady's head good."
"I'll take care of her head," he said, laughing, but he took the bottle
and said, "Thank you."
Then he told us to stay where we were while he made final arrangements,
and we were left with palpitating breasts to look wildly through the
Book of Fate, so as to have the things ready. But it turned out to be
time thrown away, for when he came back he said to Alice--
"It'll have to be only you and your sister, please, for I see they've
stuck up a card with 'Esmeralda, the gipsy Princess, reads the hand and
foretells the future' on it. So you boys will have to be mum. You can be
attendants--mutes, by jove!--yes that's it. And, I say, kiddies, you
will jolly well play up, won't you? Don't stand any cheek. Stick it on,
you know. I can't tell you how important it is about----about the lady's
headache."
"I should think this would be a cool place for a headache to be quiet
in," said Dora; and it was, for it was quite hidden in the shrubbery and
no path to it.
"By Jove!" he remarked yet once again, "so it would. You're right!"
He led us out of the shrubbery and across the park. There were people
dotted all about and they stared, but they touched their hats to the
gentleman, and he returned their salute with stern politeness.
Inside the tent with "Esmeralda, &c.," outside there was a lady in a hat
and dust-cloak. But we could see her spangles under the cloak.
"Now," said the gentleman to Dicky, "you stand at the door and let
people in, one at a time. You others can just play a few bars on your
instruments for each new person--only a very little, because you do get
out of tune, though that's barbaric certainly. Now, here's the two quid.
And you stick to the show till five; you'll hear the stable clock
chime."
The lady was very pale with black marks under her eyes, and her eyes
looked red, Oswald thought. She seemed about to speak, but the gentleman
said--
"Do trust me, Ella. I'll explain everything directly. Just go to the old
summer-house--_you_ know--and I'll be there directly. I'll take a couple
of pegs out of the back and you can slip away among the trees. Hold your
cloak close over your gown. Goodbye, kiddies. Stay, give me your
address, and I'll write and tell you if my fortune comes true."
So he shook hands with us and went. And we did stick to it, though it is
far less fun than you would think telling fortunes all the afternoon in
a stuffy tent, while outside you know there are things to eat and people
enjoying themselves. But there were the two gold quid, and we were
determined to earn them. It is very hard to tell a different fortune for
each person, and there were a great many. The girls took it in turns,
and Oswald wonders why their hairs did not go gray. Though of course it
was much better fun for them than for us, because we had just to be
mutes when we weren't playing on the combs.
The people we told fortunes to at first laughed rather, and said we were
too young to know anything. But Oswald said in a hollow voice that we
were as old as the Pyramids, and after that Alice took the tucks out of
Dicky's red coat and put it on and turbaned herself, and looked much
older.
The stable clock had chimed the quarter to five some little time, when
an elderly gentleman with whiskers, who afterwards proved to be Sir
Willoughby, burst into the tent.
"Where's Miss Blockson?" he said, and we answered truthfully that we did
not know.
"How long have you been here?" he furiously asked.
"Ever since two," said Alice wearily.
He said a word that I should have thought a baronet would have been
above using.
"Who brought you here?"
We described the gentleman who had done this, and again the baronet said
things we should never be allowed to say. "That confounded Carew!" he
added, with more words.
"Is anything wrong?" asked Dora--"can we do anything? We'll stay on
longer if you like--if you can't find the lady who was doing Esmeralda
before we came."
"I'm not very likely to find her," he said ferociously. "Stay longer
indeed! Get away out of my sight before I have you locked up for
vagrants and vagabonds."
He left the scene in bounding and mad fury. We thought it best to do as
he said, and went round the back way to the stables so as to avoid
exciting his ungoverned rage by meeting him again. We found our cart and
went home. We had got two quid and something to talk about.
But none of us--not even Oswald the discerning--understood exactly what
we had been mixed up in, till the pink satin box with three large
bottles of A1 scent in it, and postmarks of foreign lands, came to Dora.
And there was a letter. It said--
"My dear Gipsies,--I beg to return the Eau de Cologne you so kindly lent
me. The lady did use a little of it, but I found that foreign travel was
what she really wanted to make her quite happy. So we caught the 4.15
to town, and now we are married, and intend to live to a green old age,
&c., as you foretold. But for your help my fortune couldn't have come
true, because my wife's father, Sir Willoughby, thought I was not rich
enough to marry. But you see I was. And my wife and I both thank you
heartily for your kind help. I hope it was not an awful swat. I had to
say five because of the train. Good luck to you, and thanks awfully.
"Yours faithfully,
"CARISBROOK CAREW."
If Oswald had known beforehand we should never have made that two quid
for Miss Sandal.
For Oswald does not approve of marriages and would never, if he knew it,
be the means of assisting one to occur.
_THE LADY AND THE LICENSE; OR, FRIENDSHIP'S GARLAND_
"MY DEAR KIDDIES,--Miss Sandal's married sister
has just come home from Australia, and she feels
very tired. No wonder, you will say, after such a
long journey. So she is going to Lymchurch to
rest. Now I want you all to be very quiet, because
when you are in your usual form you aren't exactly
restful, are you? If this weather lasts you will
be able to be out most of the time, and when you
are indoors for goodness' sake control your lungs
and your boots, especially H.O.'s. Mrs. Bax has
travelled about a good deal, and once was nearly
eaten by cannibals. But I hope you won't bother
her to tell you stories. She is coming on Friday.
I am glad to hear from Alice's letter that you
enjoyed the Primrose Fete. Tell Noel that
'poetticle' is not the usual way of spelling the
word he wants. I send you ten shillings for
pocket-money, and again implore you to let Mrs.
Bax have a little rest and peace.
"Your loving
"FATHER."
"PS.--If you want anything sent down, tell me, and
I will get Mrs. Bax to bring it. I met your friend
Mr. Red House the other day at lunch."
When the letter had been read aloud, and we had each read it to
ourselves, a sad silence took place.
Dicky was the first to speak.
"It _is_ rather beastly, I grant you," he said, "but it might be worse."
"I don't see how," said H.O. "I do wish Father would jolly well learn to
leave my boots alone."
"It might be worse, I tell you," said Dicky. "Suppose instead of telling
us to keep out of doors it had been the other way?"
"Yes," said Alice, "suppose it had been, 'Poor Mrs. Bax requires to be
cheered up. Do not leave her side day or night. Take it in turns to make
jokes for her. Let not a moment pass without some merry jest'? Oh yes,
it might be much, much worse."
"Being able to get out all day makes it all right about trying to make
that two pounds increase and multiply," remarked Oswald. "Now who's
going to meet her at the station? Because after all it's her sister's
house, and we've got to be polite to visitors even if we're in a house
we aren't related to."
This was seen to be so, but no one was keen on going to the station. At
last Oswald, ever ready for forlorn hopes, consented to go.
We told Mrs. Beale, and she got the best room ready, scrubbing
everything till it smelt deliciously of wet wood and mottled soap. And
then we decorated the room as well as we could.
"She'll want some pretty things," said Alice, "coming from the land of
parrots and opossums and gum-trees and things."
We did think of borrowing the stuffed wild-cat that is in the bar at the
"Ship," but we decided that our decorations must be very quiet--and the
wild-cat, even in its stuffed state, was anything but; so we borrowed a
stuffed roach in a glass box and stood it on the chest of drawers. It
looked very calm. Sea-shells are quiet things when they are vacant, and
Mrs. Beale let us have the four big ones off her chiffonnier.
The girls got flowers--bluebells and white wood-anemones. We might have
had poppies or buttercups, but we thought the colours might be too loud.
We took some books up for Mrs. Bax to read in the night. And we took the
quietest ones we could find.
"Sonnets on Sleep," "Confessions of an Opium Eater," "Twilight of the
Gods," "Diary of a Dreamer," and "By Still Waters," were some of them.
The girls covered them with grey paper, because some of the bindings
were rather gay.
The girls hemmed grey calico covers for the drawers and the
dressing-table, and we drew the blinds half-down, and when all was done
the room looked as quiet as a roosting wood-pigeon.
We put in a clock, but we did not wind it up.
"She can do that herself," said Dora, "if she feels she can bear to hear
it ticking."
Oswald went to the station to meet her. He rode on the box beside the
driver. When the others saw him mount there I think they were sorry they
had not been polite and gone to meet her themselves. Oswald had a jolly
ride. We got to the station just as the train came in. Only one lady got
out of it, so Oswald knew it must be Mrs. Bax. If he had not been told
how quiet she wanted to be he would have thought she looked rather
jolly. She had short hair and gold spectacles. Her skirts were short,
and she carried a parrot-cage in her hand. It contained our parrot, and
when we wrote to tell Father that it and Pincher were the only things we
wanted sent we never thought she would have brought either.
"Mrs. Bax, I believe," was the only break Oswald made in the polite
silence that he took the parrot-cage and her bag from her in.
"How do you do?" she said very briskly for a tired lady; and Oswald
thought it was noble of her to make the effort to smile. "Are you Oswald
or Dicky?"
Oswald told her in one calm word which he was, and then Pincher rolled
madly out of a dog-box almost into his arms. Pincher would not be
quiet. Of course he did not understand the need for it. Oswald conversed
with Pincher in low, restraining whispers as he led the way to the
"Ship's" fly. He put the parrot-cage on the inside seat of the carriage,
held the door open for Mrs. Bax with silent politeness, closed it as
quietly as possible, and prepared to mount on the box.
"Oh, won't you come inside?" asked Mrs. Bax. "Do!"
"No, thank you," said Oswald in calm and mouse-like tones; and to avoid
any more jaw he got at once on to the box with Pincher.
So that Mrs. Bax was perfectly quiet for the whole six miles--unless you
count the rattle and shake-up-and-down of the fly. On the box Oswald and
Pincher "tasted the sweets of a blissful re-union," like it says in
novels. And the man from the "Ship" looked on and said how well bred
Pincher was. It was a happy drive.
There was something almost awful about the sleek, quiet tidiness of the
others, who were all standing in a row outside the cottage to welcome
Mrs. Bax. They all said, "How do you do?" in hushed voices, and all
looked as if butter would not melt in any of their young mouths. I never
saw a more soothing-looking lot of kids.
She went to her room, and we did not see her again till tea-time.
Then, still exquisitely brushed and combed, we sat round the board--in
silence. We had left the tea-tray place for Mrs. Bax, of course. But
she said to Dora--
"Wouldn't you like to pour out?"
And Dora replied in low, soft tones, "If you wish me to, Mrs. Bax. I
usually do." And she did.
We passed each other bread-and-butter and jam and honey with silent
courteousness. And of course we saw that she had enough to eat.
"Do you manage to amuse yourself pretty well here?" she asked presently.
We said, "Yes, thank you," in hushed tones.
"What do you do?" she asked.
We did not wish to excite her by telling her what we did, so Dicky
murmured--
"Nothing in particular," at the same moment that Alice said--
"All sorts of things."
"Tell me about them," said Mrs. Bax invitingly.
We replied by a deep silence. She sighed, and passed her cup for more
tea.
"Do you ever feel shy," she asked suddenly. "I do, dreadfully, with new
people."
We liked her for saying that, and Alice replied that she hoped she would
not feel shy with us.
"I hope not," she said. "Do you know, there was such a funny woman in
the train? She had seventeen different parcels, and she kept counting
them, and one of them was a kitten, and it was always under the seat
when she began to count, so she always got the number wrong."
We should have liked to hear about that kitten--especially what colour
it was and how old--but Oswald felt that Mrs. Bax was only trying to
talk for our sakes, so that we shouldn't feel shy, so he simply said,
"Will you have some more cake?" and nothing more was said about the
kitten.
Mrs. Bax seemed very noble. She kept trying to talk to us about Pincher,
and trains and Australia, but we were determined she should be quiet, as
she wished it so much, and we restrained our brimming curiosity about
opossums up gum-trees, and about emus and kangaroos and wattles, and
only said "Yes" or "No," or, more often, nothing at all.
When tea was over we melted away, "like snow-wreaths in Thawjean," and
went out on the beach and had a yelling match. Our throats felt as
though they were full of wool, from the hushed tones we had used in
talking to Mrs. Bax. Oswald won the match. Next day we kept carefully
out of the way, except for meals. Mrs. Bax tried talking again at
breakfast-time, but we checked our wish to listen, and passed the
pepper, salt, mustard, bread, toast, butter, marmalade, and even the
cayenne, vinegar, and oil, with such politeness that she gave up.
We took it in turns to watch the house and drive away organ-grinders. We
told them they must not play in front of that house, because there was
an Australian lady who had to be kept quiet. And they went at once. This
cost us expense, because an organ-grinder will never consent to fly the
spot under twopence a flight.
We went to bed early. We were quite weary with being so calm and still.
But we knew it was our duty, and we liked the feel of having done it.
The day after was the day Jake Lee got hurt. Jake is the man who drives
about the country in a covered cart, with pins and needles, and combs
and frying-pans, and all the sort of things that farmers' wives are
likely to want in a hurry, and no shops for miles. I have always thought
Jake's was a beautiful life. I should like to do it myself. Well, this
particular day he had got his cart all ready to start and had got his
foot on the wheel to get up, when a motor-car went by puffing and
hooting. I always think motor-cars seem so rude somehow. And the horse
was frightened; and no wonder. It shied, and poor Jake was thrown
violently to the ground, and hurt so much that they had to send for the
doctor. Of course we went and asked Mrs. Jake if we could do
anything--such as take the cart out and sell the things to the farmers'
wives.
But she thought not.