GOING TO LONDON.
WHO does not know the excitement of a first visit away from home,
unaccompanied by any grown-up person?
The following morning the boys were downstairs twenty minutes before
any one else, and it seemed as if Ellen would never bring in the
coffee; while so many important messages came to take up their father’s
attention, it appeared as if it must be at least ten o’clock before
breakfast and prayers were over, and they were at liberty at last to
run upstairs to the schoolroom, where nurse was busy folding their
clothes into their father’s portmanteau, which had been called into
service for the occasion.
And yet—when that was done, and the straps all fastened up, and Ronald
had run down to the surgery to get a clean white label, and had printed
‘Armitage, Victoria, London,’ on it in his best printing, and Vivian
had tied it on, while little Dorothy watched the proceedings in silent
admiration—there remained nearly four hours before the time came for an
early lunch and the drive to the station.
The hours passed somehow, however, and at last the carriage was brought
round, and the portmanteau was tucked away beside Black on the box,
while father packed the boys inside, with mother and Dorothy, who were
going to see them off. Just at the last moment he slipped two little
paper packets into their hands, telling them not to open them until
they were in the train. Then he shut the carriage door and nodded to
Black, and they had actually started at last.
They felt quite important at the quiet little station, when mother went
to get the tickets, and old Timms the porter came up, and, touching his
cap, asked ‘Where for, sir?’ and Ronald answered, ‘London, Victoria,’
in a careless tone as if going to London were quite an everyday event.
Old Timms noticed the tone, and his eyes twinkled, but he only touched
his cap again, and said, ‘Very good, sir,’ and put the portmanteau
beside the other luggage which was waiting ready for the London train.
Perhaps their hearts failed them a little, although they both would
have scorned the suggestion, as the train came roaring round the curve,
and mother gave them a last kiss, saying, ‘Give my love to Aunt Dora,
and all the others, and enjoy yourselves, and be my own good boys; and,
Vivian, remember our talk yesterday.’ Then the guard hustled them into
a carriage, the door banged, and the train moved on.
Now they had time to think about the little packets which their father
had given them, and on opening them each was found to contain two
half-crowns. This discovery quite raised their spirits again, for what
may not be bought for five shillings in the wonderful shops in London!
It was a foggy afternoon, and Victoria Station looked very big, and
dark, and bustling, as the train steamed into it; and as a porter threw
open the door of their carriage, and they stepped on to the platform,
the boys felt somewhat bewildered with the crowd of people who were
running about in all directions.
‘Supposing Aunt Dora has mistaken the train? I don’t see her anywhere,’
said Ronald, who was always rather anxious-minded.
‘Oh, we’ll just take a cab,’ said Vivian confidently; ‘that’s the way
people do, and give the man the address—“Eversley, Hampstead Heath.” He
will take us there all right. Hadn’t we better go and look after our
portmanteau? The porters are taking all the luggage out of that van.
Some one may steal ours.’
‘No; no one would dare do that; but, all the same, we had better see to
it.—Here, porter!’
But the words were too gentle for the hurrying man to heed, or perhaps
he had more important people in his eye, for he took no notice, and the
boys were standing, feeling rather helpless, with a homesick longing
for old Timms’s honest red face, when Aunt Dora’s cheery voice sounded
just behind them.
‘Well, boys, how are you? Did you think that I had forgotten you? Not
a very cheerful welcome, was it—eh, Vivian—to let you arrive all by
yourselves? But you must blame the fog and not me. It was quite clear
when I started, and it is so foggy in some parts now that we had to
drive very slowly. I am afraid it will take us quite a long time to get
home; but never mind, you will enjoy your tea all the more when you get
it.’
If it took a long time to get home, the boys hardly noticed it. It was
impossible to be shy with Aunt Dora. She was so bright and full of fun,
and so eager to hear all the home news—how mother and little Dorothy
were, and how father’s patients were getting on. She was Dr Armitage’s
sister, and had lived with him when he first settled at Sittingham, and
she took as great an interest now in the old women at the almshouses
and the new babies in the village as she had done in the old days when
she had carried soup to one and milk to the other.
‘Here we are at last!’ she exclaimed, interrupting a graphic
description which Vivian was giving of the latest village concert; and
as she spoke the carriage turned in at an ivy-covered lodge, and drew
up in front of a large square house which looked as if it were capable
of holding a very large party indeed.
The instant the carriage stopped, the front door opened, and two eager
faces appeared, peeping out behind the trim parlour-maid, who came down
the steps to open the door and take the wraps.
‘Isobel and Claude have been on the lookout, you see,’ laughed their
mother. ‘Their excitement has known no bounds ever since they knew that
you were coming. But I don’t see Ralph; I expect he will be deep in a
book as usual. Run in out of the cold, boys, and Ann will bring your
portmanteau.’
‘We thought that you were never coming,’ said Isobel, taking possession
of her cousins at once, and leading the way upstairs to the schoolroom.
‘Claude and I have been watching for the carriage ever since five
o’clock, and it is a quarter to six now. Aren’t you just famishing for
your tea? It is all ready in the schoolroom, and I’ve to pour it out.’
‘What will Miss Ritchie say to that?’ asked Ronald, laughing. ‘You
remember you told us last Easter how particular she was about spots on
the tablecloth, and a teapot is rather a heavy thing.’
‘She’s gone,’ said Claude, who was contentedly bringing up the rear,
with a broad grin on his rosy face, ‘right away to Wales to spend
her holidays. Mother said if we were very good we might do without a
governess this Christmas, for I’m eight now you see, and that is quite
big.’
‘Who is quite big?’ said a mocking voice as they entered the
schoolroom, where a blazing fire and a table covered with delicious
home-baked cakes were awaiting them, and a tall, thin boy, with a
somewhat peevish expression, rose from a corner where he had been
poring over a book, and came forward to shake hands. This was Ralph,
the eldest of Mrs Osbourne’s children. He was just a little older than
Vivian, though he might have been Ronald’s age from his very grown-up
manner. As a little boy he had been very delicate, and had been abroad
a great deal with an old French governess who had taught his mother
when she was a child. He was at a boarding-school at Eastbourne now;
and, having the idea in his own mind that he had seen a great deal of
the world, he was rather inclined to patronise his cousins, who had
always lived in the country, and to whom even a visit to London was an
event.
They, on their part, did not like him nearly so much as they did Isobel
and Claude, and could have told many a story of the want of pluck which
he showed in outdoor games; but they admired him for the way in which
he could ‘jabber French,’ as Vivian termed it, and for the grown-up
books which he read, and politeness made them careful not to stir up
questions which might lead to quarrels.
Isobel they adored. She was such a jolly little tomboy, who could climb
trees and play cricket as well as any boy, and yet she was such a
dainty little maiden, with a very tender conscience and a peace-loving
disposition, who often smoothed down angry words which might otherwise
have led to blows. ‘My little peacemaker,’ her mother called her,
and Ronald thought to himself, as they sat at tea, that the name was
well chosen, as he saw the quick colour flash into Claude’s rosy,
determined little face at some scoffing remark of Ralph’s, and noticed
how cleverly Isobel changed the subject by talking about the party
which they were to have the next night, and to which they were looking
forward with eager anticipation.
‘There is to be a Christmas tree,’ she explained, pausing in her
eagerness, with the teapot in her hand, in the middle of pouring out
tea. ‘Last year we had a cinematograph, and the year before a conjurer;
but this year mother has promised us a real Christmas tree, with
candles all lit up, and presents on it for every one.’
‘Yes; and I think it is ready in the little drawing-room now,’ said
Claude, ‘for we have been forbidden to go in. We mustn’t even go into
the big drawing-room; and I saw Jane carrying in heaps and heaps of
parcels.’
‘Did you?’ said Aunt Dora, who had come into the room unobserved: ‘and
what do you think will be inside the parcels, pray?’
‘Presents, heaps and heaps of them,’ replied Claude, his big blue eyes
growing bigger at the thought.
‘But not all for you,’ said Ralph, in his calm, superior way, which
always made Ronald feel inclined to punch him; ‘there’s a microscope
for me, and a writing-case for Isobel, and books or something or other
for Ronald and Vivian; and for the little ones, about seven or eight
years old, you know, there are tins of toffee. I saw cook making it.’
‘Oh mother, there isn’t!’ said Claude, looking ready to cry at the
suggestion. ‘I wrote to Santa Claus and told him I wanted a man-of-war,
and I posted it in the chimney myself, and it went right up.’
Mrs Osbourne laughed as she patted him on the head.
‘Ralph doesn’t know what he is talking about,’ she said. ‘Perhaps he
will not get his microscope, and perhaps you will get your man-of-war;
but you must wait till to-morrow night to see. I cannot tell you
beforehand.’