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[Illustration: Book Cover]
THE CARVED LIONS.
[Illustration: OUR CONSULTATION TOOK A GOOD WHILE.--p.
44.--_Frontispiece._]
THE CARVED LIONS
BY
MRS. MOLESWORTH
ILLUSTRATED BY L. LESLIE BROOKE
[Illustration]
1895
LONDON MACMILLAN & CO
COPYRIGHT, 1895,
BY MACMILLAN AND CO.
CONTENTS.
PAGE
CHAPTER I. OLD DAYS 1
CHAPTER II. A HAPPY EVENING 17
CHAPTER III. COMING EVENTS 33
CHAPTER IV. ALL SETTLED 48
CHAPTER V. AN UNPROMISING BEGINNING 63
CHAPTER VI. A NEW WORLD 81
CHAPTER VII. GATHERING CLOUDS 98
CHAPTER VIII. "NOBODY--_NOBODY_" 113
CHAPTER IX. OUT IN THE RAIN 131
CHAPTER X. TAKING REFUGE 148
CHAPTER XI. KIND FRIENDS 163
CHAPTER XII. GOOD NEWS 182
ILLUSTRATIONS.
OUR CONSULTATION TOOK A GOOD WHILE _Frontispiece_
"GOOD-BYE!" _To face page_ 71
"LITTLE GIRLS MUST NOT CONTRADICT, AND MUST NOT BE RUDE" 82
"MY POOR LITTLE GIRL, WHAT _IS_ THE MATTER?" 108
I CREPT DOWNSTAIRS, PAST ONE SCHOOLROOM WITH ITS CLOSED DOOR 141
THE BROTHER LIONS ROSE INTO THE AIR 154
MYRA CAME FORWARD GENTLY, HER SWEET FACE LOOKING RATHER GRAVE 174
CHAPTER I.
OLD DAYS.
It is already a long time since I was a little girl. Sometimes, when I
look out upon the world and see how many changes have come about, how
different many things are from what I can remember them, I could believe
that a still longer time had passed since my childhood than is really
the case. Sometimes, on the contrary, the remembrance of things that
then happened comes over me so very vividly, so very _real_-ly, that I
can scarcely believe myself to be as old as I am.
I can remember things in my little girlhood more clearly than many in
later years. This makes me hope that the story of some part of it may
interest children of to-day, for I know I have not forgotten the
feelings I had as a child. And after all, I believe that in a great many
ways children are very like each other in their hearts and minds, even
though their lives may seem very different and very far apart.
The first years of my childhood were very happy, though there were some
things in my life which many children would not like at all. My parents
were not rich, and the place where we lived was not pretty or pleasant.
It was a rather large town in an ugly part of the country, where great
tall chimneys giving out black smoke, and streams--once clear sparkling
brooks, no doubt--whose water was nearly as black as the smoke, made it
often difficult to believe in bright blue sky or green grass, or any of
the sweet pure country scenes that children love, though perhaps
children that have them do not love them as much as those who have not
got them do.
I think that was the way with me. The country was almost the same as
fairyland to me--the peeps I had of it now and then were a delight I
could not find words to express.
But what matters most to children is not _where_ their home is, but
_what_ it is. And our home was a very sweet and loving one, though it
was only a rather small and dull house in a dull street. Our father and
mother did everything they possibly could to make us happy, and the
trial of living at Great Mexington must have been far worse for them
than for us. For they had both been accustomed to rich homes when they
were young, and father had never expected that he would have to work so
hard or in the sort of way he had to do, after he lost nearly all his
money.
When I say "us," I mean my brother Haddie and I. Haddie--whose real name
was Haddon--was two years older than I, and we two were the whole
family. My name--_was_ I was going to say, for now there are so few
people to call me by my Christian name that it seems hardly mine--my
name is Geraldine. Somehow I never had a "short" for it, though it is a
long name, and Haddie was always Haddie, and "Haddon" scarcely needs
shortening. I think it was because he nearly always called me Sister or
"Sis."
Haddie was between ten and eleven years old and I was nine when the
great change that I am going to tell you about came over our lives. But
I must go back a little farther than that, otherwise you would not
understand all about us, nor the meaning of the odd title I have chosen
for my story.
I had no governess and I did not go to school. My mother taught me
herself, partly, I think, to save expense, and partly because she did
not like the idea of sending me to even a day-school at Great Mexington.
For though many of the families there were very rich, and had large
houses and carriages and horses and beautiful gardens, they were not
always very refined. There were good and kind and unselfish people there
as there are everywhere, but there were some who thought more of being
rich than of anything else--the sort of people that are called "purse
proud." And as children very often take after their parents, my father
and mother did not like the idea of my having such children as my
companions--children who would look down upon me for being poor, and
perhaps treat me unkindly on that account.
"When Geraldine is older she must go to school," my father used to say,
"unless by that time our ship comes in and we can afford a governess.
But when she is older it will not matter so much, as she will have
learnt to value things at their just worth."
I did not then understand what he meant, but I have never forgotten the
words.
I was a very simple child. It never entered my head that there was
anything to be ashamed of in living in a small house and having only two
servants. I thought it would be _nice_ to have more money, so that mamma
would not need to be so busy and could have more pretty dresses, and
above all that we could then live in the country, but I never minded
being poor in any sore or ashamed way. And I often envied Haddie, who
did go to school. I thought it would be nice to have lots of other
little girls to play with. I remember once saying so to mamma, but she
shook her head.
"I don't think you would like it as much as you fancy you would," she
said. "Not at present at least. When you are a few years older I hope to
send you for some classes to Miss Ledbury's school, and by that time you
will enjoy the good teaching. But except for the lessons, I am quite
sure it is better and happier for you to be at home, even though you
find it rather lonely sometimes."
And in his way Haddie said much the same. School was all very well for
boys, he told me. If a fellow tried to bully you, you could bully him
back. But girls weren't like that--they couldn't fight it out. And when
I said to him I didn't want to fight, he still shook his head, and
repeated that I wouldn't like school at all--some of his friends'
sisters were at school and they hated it.
Still, though I did not often speak of it, the wish to go to school, and
the belief that I should find school-life very happy and interesting,
remained in my mind. I often made up fancies about it, and pictured
myself doing lessons with other little girls and reading the same
story-books and playing duets together. I could not believe that I
should not like it. The truth was, I suppose, that I was longing for
companions of my own age.
It was since Haddie went to school that I had felt lonely. I was a great
deal with mamma, but of course there were hours in the day when she was
taken up with other things and could not attend to me. I used to long
then for the holidays to come so that I should have Haddie again to play
with.
My happiest days were Wednesdays and Saturdays, for then he did not go
to school in the afternoon. And mamma very often planned some little
treat for us on those days, such as staying up to have late tea with her
and papa when he came in from his office, or reading aloud some new
story-book, or going a walk with her in the afternoon and buying
whatever we liked for our own tea at the confectioner's.
Very simple treats--but then we were very simple children, as I have
said already.
Our house, though in a street quite filled with houses, was some little
way from the centre of the town, where the best shops were--some years
before, our street had, I suppose, been considered quite in the country.
We were very fond of going to the shops with mamma. We thought them very
grand and beautiful, though they were not nearly as pretty as shops are
nowadays, for they were much smaller and darker, so that the things
could not be spread out in the attractive way they are now, nor were the
things themselves nearly as varied and tempting.
There was one shop which interested us very much. It belonged to the
principal furniture-maker of Mexington. It scarcely looked like a shop,
but was more like a rather gloomy private house very full of heavy dark
cabinets and tables and wardrobes and chairs, mostly of mahogany, and
all extremely good and well made. Yes, furniture, though ugly, really
was very good in those days--I have one or two relics of my old home
still, in the shape of a leather-covered arm-chair and a
beautifully-made chest of drawers. For mamma's godmother had helped to
furnish our house when we came to Mexington, and she was the sort of old
lady who when she _did_ give a present gave it really good of its kind.
She had had furniture herself made by Cranston--that was the
cabinet-maker's name--for her home was in the country only about three
hours' journey from Mexington--and it had been first-rate, so she
ordered what she gave mamma from him also.
But it was not because the furniture was so good that we liked going to
Cranston's. It was for quite another reason. A little way in from the
front entrance to the shop, where there were glass doors to swing open,
stood a pair of huge lions carved in very dark, almost black, wood. They
were nearly, if not quite, as large as life, and the first time I saw
them, when I was only four or five, I was really frightened of them.
They guarded the entrance to the inner part of the shop, which was dark
and gloomy and mysterious-looking, and I remember clutching fast hold of
mamma's hand as we passed them, not feeling at all sure that they would
not suddenly spring forward and catch us. But when mamma saw that I was
frightened, she stopped and made me feel the lions and stroke them to
show me that they were only wooden and could not possibly hurt me. And
after that I grew very fond of them, and was always asking her to take
me to the "lion shop."
Haddie liked them too--his great wish was to climb on one of their backs
and play at going a ride.
I don't think I thought of that. What I liked was to stroke their heavy
manes and fancy to myself what I would do if, all of a sudden, one of
them "came alive," as I called it, and turned his head round and looked
at me. And as I grew older, almost without knowing it, I made up all
sorts of fairy fancies about the lions--I sometimes thought they were
enchanted princes, sometimes that they were real lions who were only
carved wood in the day-time, and at night walked about wherever they
liked.
So, for one reason or another, both Haddie and I were always very
pleased when mamma had to look in at Cranston's.
This happened oftener than might have been expected, considering that
our house was small, and that my father and mother were not rich enough
often to buy new furniture. For mamma's godmother seemed to be always
ordering something or other at the cabinet-maker's, and as she knew
mamma was very sensible and careful, she used to write to her to explain
to Cranston about the things she wanted, or to look at them before he
sent them home, to see that they were all right. And Cranston was always
very polite indeed to mamma.
He himself was a stout, red-faced, little, elderly man, with gray
whiskers, which he brushed up in a fierce kind of way that made him look
like a rather angry cat, though he really was a very gentle and kind old
man. I thought him much nicer than his partner, whose name was Berridge,
a tall, thin man, who talked very fast, and made a great show of
scolding any of the clerks or workmen who happened to be about.
Mr. Cranston was very proud of the lions. They had belonged to his
grandfather and then to his father, who had both been in the same sort
of business as he was, and he told mamma they had been carved in "the
East." I didn't know what he meant by the East, and I don't now know
what country he was alluding to--India or China or Japan. And I am not
sure that he knew himself. But "the East" sounded far away and
mysterious--it might do for fairyland or brownieland, and I was quite
satisfied. No doubt, wherever they came from, the lions were very
beautifully carved.
Now I will go on to tell about the changes that came into our lives,
closing the doors of these first happy childish years, when there
scarcely seemed to be ever a cloud on our sky.
One day, when I was a month or two past nine years old, mamma said to me
just as I was finishing my practising--I used to practise half an hour
every other day, and have a music lesson from mamma the between
days--that she was going out to do some shopping that afternoon, and
that, if I liked, I might go with her.
"I hope it will not rain," she added, "though it does look rather
threatening. But perhaps it will hold off till evening."
"And I can take my umbrella in case it rains," I said. I was very proud
of my umbrella. It had been one of my last birthday presents. "Yes,
mamma, I should like to come very much. Will Haddie come too?"
For it was Wednesday--one of his half-holidays.
"To tell the truth," said mamma, "I forgot to ask him this morning if he
would like to come, but he will be home soon--it is nearly luncheon
time. I daresay he will like to come, especially as I have to go to
Cranston's."
She smiled a little as she said this. Our love for the carved lions
amused her.
"Oh yes, I am sure he will like to come," I said. "And may we buy
something for tea at Miss Fryer's on our way home?"
Mamma smiled again.
"That will be two treats instead of one," she said, "but I daresay I can
afford two or three pence."
Miss Fryer was our own pet confectioner, or pastry-cook, as we used to
say more frequently then. She was a Quakeress, and her shop was very
near our house, so near that mamma let me go there alone with Haddie.
Miss Fryer was very grave and quiet, but we were not at all afraid of
her, for we knew that she was really very kind. She was always dressed
in pale gray or fawn colour, with a white muslin shawl crossed over her
shoulders, and a white net cap beautifully quilled and fitting tightly
round her face, so that only a very little of her soft gray hair
showed. She always spoke to us as "thou" and "thee," and she was very
particular to give us exactly what we asked for, and also to take the
exact money in payment. But now and then, after the business part had
been all correctly settled, she would choose out a nice bun or
sponge-cake, or two or three biscuits, and would say "I give thee this
as a present." And she did not like us to say, "Thank you, Miss Fryer,"
but "Thank you, friend Susan." I daresay she would have liked us to say,
"Thank _thee_," but neither Haddie nor I had courage for that!
I ran upstairs in high spirits, and five minutes after when Haddie came
in from school he was nearly as pleased as I to hear our plans.
"If only it does not rain," said mamma at luncheon.
Luncheon was, of course, our dinner, and it was often mamma's dinner
really too. Our father was sometimes so late of getting home that he
liked better to have tea than a regular dinner. But mamma always called
it luncheon because it seemed natural to her.
"I don't mind if it does rain," said Haddie, "because of my new
mackintosh."
Haddie was very proud of his mackintosh, which father had got him for
going to and from school in rainy weather. Mackintoshes were then a new
invention, and very expensive compared with what they are now. But
Haddie was rather given to catching cold, and at Great Mexington it did
rain very often--much oftener than anywhere else, I am quite sure.
"And Geraldine doesn't mind because of her new umbrella," said mamma.
"So we are proof against the weather, whatever happens."
It may seem strange that I can remember so much of a time now so very
long ago. But I really do--of that day and of those that followed it
especially, because, as I have already said, they were almost the close
of the first part of our childish life.
That afternoon was such a happy one. We set off with mamma, one on each
side of her, hanging on her arms, Haddie trying to keep step with her,
and I skipping along on my tiptoes. When we got to the more crowded
streets we had to separate--that is to say, Haddie had to let go of
mamma's arm, so that he could fall behind when we met more than one
person. For the pavements at Mexington were in some parts narrow and
old-fashioned.
Mamma had several messages to do, and at some of the shops Haddie and I
waited outside because we did not think they were very interesting. But
at some we were only too ready to go in. One I remember very well. It
was a large grocer's. We thought it a most beautiful shop, though
nowadays it would be considered quite dull and gloomy, compared with the
brilliant places of the kind you see filled with biscuits and dried
fruits and all kinds of groceries tied up with ribbons, or displayed in
boxes of every colour of the rainbow. I must say I think the groceries
themselves were quite as good as they are now, and in some cases better,
but that may be partly my fancy, as I daresay I have a partiality for
old-fashioned things.
Mamma did not buy all our groceries at this grand shop, for it was
considered dear. But certain things, such as tea--which cost five
shillings a pound then--she always ordered there. And the grocer, like
Cranston, was a very polite man. I think he understood that though she
was not rich, and never bought a great deal, mamma was different in
herself from the grandly-dressed Mexington ladies who drove up to his
shop in their carriages, with a long list of all the things they wanted.
And when mamma had finished giving her order, he used always to offer
Haddie and me a gingerbread biscuit of a very particular and delicious
kind. They were large round biscuits, of a nice bright brown colour, and
underneath they had thin white wafer, which we called "eating paper."
They were crisp without being hard. I never see gingerbreads like them
now.
"This is a lucky day, mamma," I said, when we came out of the grocer's.
"Mr. Simeon never forgets to give us gingerbreads when he is there
himself."
"No," said mamma, "he is a very kind man. Perhaps he has got Haddies and
Geraldines of his own, and knows what they like."
"And now are we going to Cranston's?" asked my brother.
Mamma looked at the paper in her hand. She was very careful and
methodical in all her ways, and always wrote down what she had to do
before she came out.
"Yes," she said, "I think I have done everything else. But I shall be
some little time at Cranston's. Mrs. Selwood has asked me to settle ever
so many things with him--she is going abroad for the winter, and wants
him to do a good deal of work at Fernley while she is away."