AN OLD SHOP AND AN OGRE
"Innocent face with the sad sweet eyes,
Smiling on us through the centuries."
Baby and Fritz went out a walk that afternoon in the town with auntie
and Lisa. Celia and Denny had gone for a drive with mother and
grandfather, which the big people thought would make a good division.
Grandfather was very fond of children, but in a carriage, he used to
say, _two_ small people were enough of a good thing. So Celia and Denny
worried Lisa to get out their best hats and jackets--which were not
unpacked, as grandfather had not yet decided whether they should stay at
the hotel or get a house for themselves--and set off in great spirits on
the back seat of the carriage.
Fritz and Baby were in very good spirits too. Fritz wanted to walk along
the sort of front street of the town which faced the sea, for he was
never tired of looking at boats and ships. Baby liked them too, but what
he most wanted to see was the shops. Baby was very fond of shops. He was
fond of buying things, but before he bought anything he used to like to
be quite sure which was the best shop to get it at--I mean to say at
which shop he could get it best--and he often asked the price two or
three times before he fixed. And he had never before seen so many shops
or such pretty and curious ones as there were at Santino, so he was
quite delighted, though if you hadn't known him well you would hardly
have guessed it, for he trotted along as grave as a little judge, only
staring about him with all his eyes.
And indeed there were plenty of things to stare at. Fritz's tongue went
very fast. He wanted auntie to stop every minute to look at something
wonderful. The carts drawn by oxen pleased him and Baby very much.
"That's the working cows they told us about," said Fritz. "They're very
nice, but I think I like horses best, don't you, Baby?"
"No, him likes cows best," said Baby, "when him's a man him will have a
calliage wif hundreds of cows to pull it along, and wif lots and lots of
gold bells all tinkling. Won't that be lubly?"
"Not half so nice as a lot of ponies, all with bells," said Fritz,
"they'd make ever so much more jingling, 'cos they go so fast. Isn't it
funny to see all the women with handkerchers on their heads and no
bonnets, Baby?"
"When him's a man," said Baby again--he was growing more talkative
now--"when him's a man, him's going to have auntie and Lisa," auntie and
Lisa came first, of course, because they happened to be in his sight,
"and mother, and Celia, and Denny _all_ for his wifes, and them shall
all wear most bootly hankerwifs on them's heads, red and blue and pink
and every colour, and gold--lots of gold."
"Thank you," said auntie, "but by that time my hair, for one, will be
quite gray; I shall be quite an old woman. I don't think such splendid
trappings would suit me."
"Him said _handkerwifs_, not traps--him doesn't know what traps is,"
said Baby. "And him will be werry kind to you when you're old. Him will
always let you come in and warm yourself, and give you halfpennies."
"Thank you, dear, I'm sure you will," said auntie. But she and Fritz
looked at each other. That was one of Herr Baby's ideas, and they
couldn't get him to understand, so mother settled it was better to
leave it and he'd understand of himself when he grew bigger. He thought
that _everybody_, however rich and well off they might be, had to grow
quite, quite poor, and to beg for pennies in the streets before they
died. Wasn't it a funny fancy? It was not till a good while afterwards
that mother found out that what had made him think so was the word
"old." He couldn't understand that growing old could mean only growing
old in years--he thought it meant as well, poor and worn-out, like his
own little old shoes. Just now it would have been no good trying to
explain, even if mother had quite understood what was in his mind, which
she didn't till he told her himself long after. For it only made him cry
when people tried to explain and _he_ couldn't explain what he meant.
There was nothing vexed him so much! And I think there was something
rather nice mixed up with this funny idea about getting old. It made
Baby wish to be so kind to all poor old people. He would look at any
poor old beggar in such a strange sad way, and he always _begged_ to be
allowed to give them a penny. And, though no one knew of it, in his own
mind he was thinking that his dear little mother or his kind auntie
would be like that some day, and he would like rich little boys to be
kind to them then, just as he was now to other poor old people. Of
course, he said to himself, "If _him_ sees dear little mother and auntie
when they get old, _him_ will take care of them and let them rest at his
house every time they come past, but _p'raps_ him might be far away
then."
And sometimes, when grandfather spoke about getting old and how white
his hair was growing, Baby would look at him very gravely, for in his
own mind he was wondering if the time was very soon coming for poor
grandfather to be an old beggar-man. Baby thought it _had_ to be, you
see, he thought it was just what must come to everybody.
Just as auntie and he had finished talking about getting old they turned
a corner and went down a street which led them away from the view of the
sea. This street had shops at both sides, and some of them were very
pretty, but they were not the kind of shops that the little boys cared
much for--they were mostly dressmakers' and milliners' and shawl shops.
Lots of grand dresses and hats and bonnets were to be seen, which would
have pleased Celia and Denny perhaps, but which Fritz said were very
stupid. Auntie did not seem to care for them either--she was in a hurry
to go to an office where she was going to ask about a house that might
do for them. So she walked on quickly, as quickly at least as Baby's
short legs could go, for she held him by the hand, and Fritz and Lisa
came behind. They left this street in a minute and crossed through two
or three others before auntie could find the one she wanted. Suddenly
Baby gave her a tug.
"Oh auntie," he said, "p'ease 'top one minute. Him sees shiny glass jugs
like dear little mother's. Oh, do 'top."
Auntie stopped. They were passing what is called an old curiosity shop;
it was a funny looking place, seeming very crowded even though it was a
large shop, for it was so very full of all sorts of queer things. Some
among them were more queer than pretty, but some were very pretty too,
and in one corner of the window there were several jugs, and cups, and
bottles, and such things, of very fine glass, with the same sort of
soft-coloured shine on it that Baby remembered in the two jugs that he
had pulled down in the tiny trunk. Baby's eyes had spied them out at
once.
[Illustration: "Oh, auntie," he said, "p'ease 'top one minute.
Him sees shiny glass jugs like dear little mother's. Oh, do
'top."--P. 106.]
"Look, look, auntie," he said, again gently tugging her.
"Yes, Baby dear, very pretty," said auntie, but without paying much
attention to the glass, for she was not thinking of Baby's adventure in
the pantry at the moment, and did not know what jugs of his mother's he
meant.
"There is two _just_ like mother's," said Baby, but he spoke lower now,
almost as if he were speaking to himself. An idea had come into his mind
which he had hardly yet understood himself, and he did not want to speak
of it to any one else. He just stood at the window staring in, his two
eyes fixed on the glass jugs, and the great question he was saying to
himself was, "How many pennies would they cost?"
"Them's a little smaller, him sinks," he murmured, "but p'raps mother
wouldn't mind."
It was a mistake of his that they were smaller; they were really a
little larger than the broken ones. Besides Baby had never seen the
broken ones till they _were_ broken. One of them had been much less
smashed than the other, and mother had examined it to see if it could
possibly be mended so as to look pretty as an ornament, even though it
would never do to hold water, and, when she found nothing could be done,
she had told Thomas to keep the top part of it as a sort of pattern, in
case she ever had a chance of getting the same. I think I forgot to
explain this to you before, and you may have wondered how Baby knew so
well what the jugs had been like.
"Them is a little smaller," he said again to himself. He did not
understand that things often look smaller when they are among a great
many others of the same kind, and though there was not a very great deal
of the shiny glass in the shop window, there was enough to make it
rather a wonder that such a little boy as Baby had caught sight of the
two jugs at all, for they were behind the rest. He had time to look at
them well, for, though auntie had been rather in a hurry, she, too,
stood still in front of the shop, for something had caught her eyes too.
"How _very_ pretty, how sweet!" she said to herself, "I wish I could
copy it. It seems to me beautifully done," and when Fritz, who had not
found the shop so interesting as the others had done, in his turn gave
her a tug and said, "Auntie, aren't you coming?" she pointed out to him
what it was she was so pleased with.
"Isn't it sweet, Fritz?" said auntie.
"Yes," said Fritz, "but it's rather dirty, auntie, isn't it?"
Fritz was very, what is called, _practical_. The "it" that auntie was
speaking about was an old picture, hanging up on the wall at the side of
the door. It was the portrait of a little girl, a very little girl, of
not more than three or four years old. She had a dear little face, sweet
and bright, and yet somehow a very little sad, or else it was the
long-ago make of the dress, and the faded look of the picture itself,
beside the baby-like face that made it _seem_ sad. You couldn't help
thinking the moment you saw it, "Dear me, that little girl must be a
very old woman by now or most likely she must be dead!" I think it was
that that made one feel sad on first looking at the picture, for, after
all, the face _was_ bright and happy-looking: the rosy, roguish, little
mouth was smiling, the soft blue eyes had a sort of twinkling fun in
them, though they were so soft, and the fair hair, so fair that it
almost seemed white, drawn up rather tight in an old-fashioned way, fell
back again on one side as if little Blue-eyes had just been having a
good run. And one fat, dimpled shoulder was poked out of the prim white
frock in a way that, I daresay, had rather shocked the little girl's
mother when the painter first showed her his work, for our little, old,
great-great-grandfathers' and great-great-grandmothers', children, must
have had to sit very, very still in their very best and stiffest frocks
and suits when their pictures were painted, poor little things! They
were not so lucky as you are nowadays, who have only to go to the
photograph man's for half an hour, and keep your merry faces still for a
quarter of a minute, if your mothers want to have a picture of you!
But Blue-eyes must have had some fun when _her_ picture was painted, I
think, or else that little shoulder wouldn't have got leave to poke
itself out of its sleeve, and there wouldn't have been that mischievous
look about the comers of her mouth.
"_Isn't_ it a little dirty, auntie?" said Fritz.
"Wouldn't your face look a little dirty if it had been hanging up in a
frame for over a hundred years?" said auntie, laughing, at which Fritz
looked rather puzzled.
Then auntie's eyes went back to the picture again.
"It _is_ sweet," she said, "very, very sweet, and so perfectly natural."
All this time, as I told you, Herr Baby's whole mind had been given to
the shiny glasses. Suddenly the sound of his aunt's voice caught his
ear, and he looked up.
"What is it that is so 'weet, auntie?" he said.
"The picture over there, dear. Hanging up by the door. The little girl."
Baby looked up, and in a moment his eyes brightened.
"Oh, what a _dear_ little baby!" he said. "Oh, her _is_ 'weet! Auntie,
him would so like to kiss her."
"You darling!" said auntie, her glance turning from the sweet picture
face above to the sweet living face beside her. "I wonder if you will
ever learn to paint like that, Baby. _I_ should very much like to copy
it if I could have the loan of it. It would be sure to be very dear to
buy," she added to herself. "But we must hurry, my little boys," she
went on. "I was tempted to waste time admiring the picture, but we must
be quick."
Fritz and Lisa turned away with auntie, but Baby waited one moment
behind. He pressed his face close against the shop window and whispered
softly,
"Pitty little girl, him would like to kiss you. Him will come a 'nother
day. P'ease, pitty little girl, don't let nobody take away the shiny
glasses, for him wants to buy them for mother."
Then, quite satisfied, he trotted down the street after the others, who
were waiting for him a few doors off.
"Were you saying good-bye to the picture, Baby?" said auntie, smiling.
"Yes," said Baby gravely.
Auntie soon found the office where she was to hear about the house they
were thinking of taking. The little boys stood beside her and listened
gravely while she asked questions about it, though they couldn't
understand what was said.
"Him wishes the people in this countly wouldn't talk lubbish talk," said
Herr Baby to Fritz with a sigh. "Him would so like to know what them
says."
"_I_ want to know if we're going to have a house with a garden," said
Fritz. "That's all _I_ care about," and as soon as they were out in the
street again, he asked auntie if "the man" had said there was a garden
to the house.
"There are several houses that I have to tell your grandfather about,"
said auntie. "Some have gardens and some haven't, but the one we like
the best has a garden, though not a very big one."
"Not as big as the one at home?" said Fritz.
"Oh dear no, of course not," said auntie. "It is quite different here
from at home. People only come to stay a short time, they wouldn't care
to be troubled with big gardens."
"I don't mind," said Fritz amiably, "if only it's big enough for us to
have a corner to dig in, and somewhere to play in when Lisa's in a fussy
humour."
"Mine child," said Lisa mildly. Poor Lisa, she was not a very fussy
person! Indeed she was rather too easy for such lively young people as
Fritz and Denny.
"And do you want a garden, too, very much, Baby?" said auntie.
Baby had hardly heard what they were saying. His mind was still running
on the shiny jugs and the blue-eyed little girl.
"Him wants gate lots of pennies," he said, which didn't seem much of an
answer to auntie's question.
"Lots of pennies, my little man," said auntie. "What do you want lots of
pennies for?"
But Baby would not tell.
Just then they saw coming towards them in the street two very funny
looking men. They had no hats or caps on their heads, so the children
could see that they had no hair either, at least none on the top, where
it was shaved quite off, and only a sort of fringe all round left. Then
they had queer loose brown coats, with big capes, something like
grandfather's Inverness cloak, Fritz thought, and silver chains hanging
down at their sides, and, queerest of all, no stockings or proper boots
or shoes, only things like the _soles_ of shoes strapped on to their
bare feet. These were called sandals, auntie said, and she told the boys
that these funny looking men were monks, "Franciscans," she said they
were called. They all lived together, and they never kept any money, and
people said--but auntie thought that was not quite true--that they never
washed themselves.
"Nasty dirty men," said Fritz, making a face. "I shouldn't like to be a
Franciscan."
"Not in winter, Fritz?" said Baby. "Him wouldn't mind in winter when the
water _are_ so cold. Lisa," he went on, turning round to his nurse,
"'member--when the _werry_ cold mornings comes, him's going to be a
Frantisker--will you 'member, Lisa?"
"But what about the pennies?" said auntie, laughing. "If you are a
Frantisker, Baby, you won't have any pennies, and you said just now you
wanted a great lot of pennies."
Baby looked very grave.
"Then him won't be a Frantisker," he said decidedly.
After that he spoke very little all the way home. He had a great deal on
his mind, you see. And his last thought that night as he was falling
asleep was, "Him are so glad him asked the little pitty girl to take
care of the shiny jugs."
Funny little Herr Baby! How much was fancy, how much was earnest in his
busy baby mind, who can tell?
A few days after this, they all moved from the Hotel to the pretty house
with a garden which auntie had gone to ask about. It _was_ a pretty
house. I wish I could show it to you, children! It had not only a garden
but a terrace, and this terrace overlooked the sea, the blue sunny sea
of the south. And from one side, or from a little farther down in the
garden, one could see the white-capped mountains, rising, rising up into
the sky, with sometimes a soft mist about their heads which made them
seem even higher than they were, "high enough to peep into heaven," said
Baby; and sometimes, on very clear days, standing out sharply against
the blue behind, so that one could hardly believe it would take more
than a few minutes to run to the top and down again.
There were many interesting things in this garden--things that the
children had not had in the old garden at home, nice though it was. It
was not so beautifully neat as the flower part of the garden at home,
but I do not think the children liked it any the less for that. The
trees and bushes grew so thickly that down at the lower end it was
really like a wilderness, a most lovely place for hide-and-seek. Then
there was a fountain, a real fountain, where the water actually danced
and fell all day long; and all round the windows of the house and the
trellised balcony there were the most lovely red shaded leaves, such as
one never sees in such quantities in the north. And in among the stones
of the terrace there lived lizards--the most delightful lizards. One in
particular grew so friendly that he used to come out at meal-times to
drink a little milk which the children spilt for him on purpose; for the
day nursery, or school-room, as Celia liked it to be called, opened on
to the terrace too, though at the other end from the two drawing-rooms
and grandfather's "study," and the windows were long and low, opening
like doors, so that Lisa had hard work to keep the children quiet at
table the first few days, for every minute they were jumping up to see
some new wonder that they caught sight of. Altogether it was a very
pretty home to spend the winter in, and every one seemed very happy.
Bully and the "calanies" were as merry as larks, if it is true that
larks are merrier than other birds, and Peepy-Snoozle and Tim,
mistaking the bright warm sunshine for another summer, I suppose, got in
the habit of being quite lively about the middle of the day as well as
in the middle of the night, instead of spending all the daylight hours
curled up like two very sleepy fairy babies with brown fur coats on, in
their nice white cotton-wool nests.
There was so much to do and to think of the first few days that I think
Baby forgot a little about what he had seen in the old curiosity shop.
Auntie, too, was too busy to give any thought to the picture which had
so taken her fancy, though neither she nor Baby _really_ forgot the dear
little face with its loving, half-merry, half-sad blue eyes. But auntie
had to help mother to get everything settled; and of course there was a
good deal to explain to the strange servants, for neither Peters nor
Linley the maid knew "lubbish talk," as Baby _would_ call it, at all,
and it was very funny indeed to hear Peters trying to make the cook
understand how grandfather liked his cutlets, or Linley "pounding" at
the housemaid, as Fritz called it, to get it into her head that _she_
didn't call it _cleaning_ a room to sweep all the dirt into a corner
where it couldn't be seen! Peters was more patient than Linley. When
Linley couldn't make herself understood she used to shout louder and
louder, as if that would make the others know what she meant, and then
she used to say to Celia that it really was "a _very_ hodd thing that
the people of this country seemed not to have all their senses." And
however Celia explained to her, she _couldn't_ be got to see that she
must seem just as stupid to them as they seemed to her! Peters was less
put about. He had been in India with grandfather, so he said he was used
to "furriners." He seemed to think everybody that wasn't English could
be put together as "furriners"; but he had brought a dictionary and a
book of little sentences in four languages, and he would sit on the
kitchen table patiently trying one language after another on the poor
cook, just as when one can't open a lock, one tries all the keys one can
find, to see if by chance one will fit. The cook was a very mild, gentle
man; he had a nice wife and two little children in the town, and he was
inclined to be very fond of Herr Baby, and to pet him if ever he got a
chance. But that wasn't for a good while, for Baby was at first terribly
frightened of him. He had a black moustache and whiskers and very black
eyes, and they looked blacker under his square white cook's cap, and the
first time Baby saw him through the kitchen window, the cook happened
to be standing with a large carving-knife in one hand, and a chicken
which he was holding up by the legs, in the other. Off flew Herr Baby. A
little way down the garden he ran against Denny, who was also busy
examining their new quarters.
"Oh, Denny, Denny!" he cried, "this is a dedful place--there's a' ogre,
a real tellable ogre in the house. Him's seen him in one of the windows
under the dimey-room. Oh, Denny, Denny, p'raps him'll eaten us up."
Denny for the first moment was, to tell the truth, a little bit
frightened herself. Common sense told her there _were_ no such things as
ogres, not now-a-days any way, at least not in England, their own
country. But a dreadful idea struck her that this was _not_ England;
this might be one of the countries where ogres, like wolves and bears,
were still occasionally to be found. There was no telling, certainly;
but not for a good deal would Miss Denise Aylmer, a young lady of nine
years old _past_, have owned to being frightened as long as she could
possibly help it.
She caught Baby by the hand.
"What sall we do?" he said; "sall we go and tell mother?"
Denny considered.
"We'd better go and see again," she said very bravely. "You must have
made a mistake, I think, Baby dear. I don't _think_ there can be any
ogres here."
Baby was much struck by Denny's courage. His hand slipped back a very
little out of hers.
"Will _you_ go and see, Denny?" he said. "Him will stay here till you
comes back."
"Oh, no, you'd better come with me," said Denny, who felt that even Baby
was better than nobody. "I shouldn't know where you saw the ogre," and
she kept tight hold of his hand. "Which window was it?"
"It were at a tiny window _really_ under the ground. Him was peeping to
see if there was f'owers 'side of the wall," said Baby. "Him'll show
you, Denny; him _are_ so glad you isn't f'ightened."
They set off down the path, making their way rather cautiously as they
got near the house. Suddenly Denny felt Baby squeeze her hand more
tightly, and with a sort of scream he turned round and hid his face
against her.
"There! There!" he cried. "Him sees the ogre coming."
[Illustration: Baby ventured to peep round. The little black-eyed,
white-capped man came towards them smiling.--P. 121.]
Denny looked up. She saw a rather little man with a white apron and a
white cap, carrying a couple of cackling hens or chickens in his arms,
coming across the garden from the house. He was on his way to a little
sort of poultry-yard, where he had fastened up half-a-dozen live
chickens he had bought at the market that morning, meaning to kill two
of them for dinner, but finding them not so fat as he had expected, he
was putting them back among their friends for a day or two. Very like a
_real_ ogre, if Denny and Baby had understood all about it, which they
didn't. Denny herself, for a minute or two, felt puzzled as to who this
odd-looking man could be. But he was no _ogre_, that was certain, any
way.
"Don't be frightened, Baby, it's not a' ogre," she said. "Look up, he's
far too little."
Baby ventured to peep round. The little black-eyed, white-capped man
came towards them smiling.
"Bon jour, Mademoiselle, bon jour, Monsieur Bebe," he said, looking
quite pleased. And then he stroked down the ruffled feathers of the poor
chickens, and held them out to the two children, chattering away at a
great rate in Baby's "lubbish talk," hardly a word of which they
understood.
"Can he be wanting to sell the chickens?" said Denny.
The cook, who had before this lived with families from England,
understood the children's language better than they did his, which,
however, is not saying a great deal.
"Yes, Mees, pairfectly," he said. "Me sell zem at ze marche the morning.
Fine poulets, goot poulets, not yet strong--wait one, two, 'ree days--be
strong for one grand dinner for Madame."
"Who are you? What's your name, please?" said Denny, still a little
alarmed.
"Jean-Georges, Mademoiselle," said the little man, with a bow.
"Jean-Georges compose charming plates for Mademoiselle and Monsieur
Bebe. Jean-Georges loves little messieurs and little 'demoiselles.
Madame permit Monsieur and Mademoiselle visit Jean-Georges in his
cuisine one day."
Denny caught the word "cuisine," which, of course, children, you will
know means "kitchen."
"He's the cook, Baby," she said, with great relief; "don't you remember
grandfather said he must have a man cook? Good morning, Mr. Cook, we'll
ask mother to let us go and see you one day in your kitchen, and you
must make us very nice things to eat, please Mr. Cook."
"Pairfectly, Mademoiselle," said Jean-Georges, with as magnificent a
bow as he could manage, considering the two chickens in his arms, and
then he walked away.
"What a _very_ nice man!" said Denny, feeling very proud of herself, and
quite forgetting that she, too, had not been without some fears. "You
see, Baby dear, how foolish it is to be frightened. I _told_ you there
couldn't be any ogres here."
Herr Baby did not answer for a moment. He had certainly very much
admired Denny's courage, but still he wasn't quite sure that she had not
been a _very_ little afraid, just for a minute, when he had called out
"There he is!"
"What would you have done if there _had_ been a' ogre, Denny?" he said.
"Oh, bother," said Denny, "what's the good of talking about things that
_couldn't_ be? Talk of something sensible, Baby."
Baby grew silent again. They walked on slowly down the garden path.
"Denny," said Baby, in a minute or two, "didn't the little man say
somefin about mother having a party?"
Denny pricked up her ears at this. Parties of all kinds pleased her very
much.
"Did he?" she said, "I didn't notice. He said something about Madame's
dinner, but I didn't think he meant a dinner-_party_. Perhaps he did
though. We'll ask. I'd like mother to have some parties; it seems quite
a long time since I had one of my best frocks on to come down to the
drawing-room before dinner, the way we did at home. And I know mother
and auntie have friends here. I heard that stupid little footman asking
Linley what day 'Miladi' would 'receive,' that means have visitors,
Baby."
Denny's tongue had run on so fast, that it had left Baby's wits some way
behind. They had stopped short at the first idea of a party.
"Mother likes to make _werry_ pitty dinners when she has parties," he
said. "Mother told him that were why she were so solly when him breaked
her's pitty glasses."
"I don't know what you're talking about, Baby," said Denny. "Let's have
a race. I'll give you a start."