A HAPPY EVENING.
Haddie and I were not at all sorry to hear that mamma's call at
Cranston's was not to be a hurried one.
"We don't mind if you are ever so long," I said; "do we, Haddie?"
"No, of course we don't," Haddie agreed. "I should like to spend a whole
day in those big show-rooms of his. Couldn't we have jolly games of
hide-and-seek, Sis? And then riding the lions! I wish you were rich
enough to buy one of the lions, mamma, and have it for an ornament in
the hall, or in the drawing-room."
"We should need to build a hall or a drawing-room to hold it," said
mamma, laughing. "I'm afraid your lion would turn into a white elephant,
Haddie, if it became ours."
I remember wondering what she meant. How could a lion turn into an
elephant? But I was rather a slow child in some ways. Very often I
thought a thing over a long time in my mind if I did not understand it
before asking any one to explain it. And so before I said anything it
went out of my head, for here we were at Cranston's door.
There was only a young shopman to be seen, but when mamma told him she
particularly wanted to see Mr. Cranston himself, he asked us to step in
and take a seat while he went to fetch him.
We passed between the lions. It seemed quite a long time since we had
seen them, and I thought they looked at us very kindly. I was just
nudging Haddie to whisper this to him when mamma stopped to say to us
that we might stay in the outer room if we liked; she knew it was our
favourite place, and in a few minutes we heard her talking to old Mr.
Cranston, who had come to her in the inner show-room through another
door.
Haddie's head was full of climbing up onto one of the lions to go a
ride. But luckily he could not find anything to climb up with, which was
a very good thing, as he would have been pretty sure to topple over, and
Mr. Cranston would not have been at all pleased if he had scratched the
lion.
To keep him quiet I began talking to him about my fancies. I made him
look close into the lions' faces--it was getting late in the afternoon,
and we had noticed before we came in that the sun was setting stormily.
A ray of bright orange-coloured light found its way in through one of
the high-up windows which were at the back of the show-room, and fell
right across the mane of one of the lions and almost into the eyes of
the other. The effect on the dark, almost black, wood of which they were
made was very curious.
"Look, Haddie," I said suddenly, catching his arm, "doesn't it really
look as if they were smiling at us--the one with the light on its face
especially? I really do think there's something funny about them--I
wonder if they are enchanted."
Haddie did not laugh at me. I think in his heart he was fond of fancies
too, though he might not have liked the boys at school to know it. He
sat staring at our queer friends nearly as earnestly as I did myself.
And as the ray of light slowly faded, he turned to me.
"Yes," he said, "their faces do seem to change. But I think they always
look kind."
"They do to _us_," I said confidently, "but sometimes they are quite
fierce. I don't think they looked at us the way they do now the first
time they saw us. And one day one of the men in the shop shoved
something against one of them and his face frowned--I'm sure it did."
"I wonder if he'd frown if I got up on his back," said Haddie.
"Oh, do leave off about climbing on their backs," I said. "It wouldn't
be at all comfortable--they're so broad, you couldn't sit cross-legs,
and they'd be as slippery as anything. It's much nicer to make up
stories about them coming alive in the night, or turning into black
princes and saying magic words to make the doors open like in the
Arabian Nights."
"Well, tell me stories of all they do then," said Haddie
condescendingly.
"I will if you'll let me think for a minute," I said. "I wish Aunty Etta
was here--she does know such lovely stories."
"I like yours quite as well," said Haddie encouragingly, "I don't
remember Aunty Etta's; it's such a long time since I saw her. You saw
her last year, you know, but I didn't."
"She told me one about a china parrot, a most beautiful green and gold
parrot, that was really a fairy," I said. "I think I could turn it into
a lion story, if I thought about it."
"No," said Haddie, "you can tell the parrot one another time. I'd rather
hear one of your own stories, new, about the lions. I know you've got
some in your head. Begin, do--I'll help you if you can't get on."
But my story that afternoon was not to be heard. Just as I was beginning
with, "Well, then, there was once an old witch who lived in a very
lonely hut in the middle of a great forest," there came voices behind
us, and in another moment we heard mamma saying,
"Haddie, my boy, Geraldine, I am quite ready."
I was not very sorry. I liked to have more time to make up my stories,
and Haddie sometimes hurried me so. It was Aunty Etta, I think, who had
first put it into my head to make them. She was _so_ clever about it
herself, both in making stories and in remembering those she had read,
and she _had_ read a lot. But she was away in India at the time I am now
writing about; her going so far off was a great sorrow to mamma.
Haddie and I started up at once. We had to be very obedient, what father
called "quickly obedient," and though he was so kind he was very strict
too.
"My children are great admirers of your lions, Mr. Cranston," mamma
said; and the old man smiled.
"They are not singular in their taste, madam," he said. "I own that I am
very proud of them myself, and when my poor daughter was a child there
was nothing pleased her so much as when her mother or I lifted her on to
one of them, and made believe she was going a ride."
Haddie looked triumphant.
"There now you see, Sis," he whispered, nudging me.
But I did not answer him, for I was listening to what mamma was saying.
"Oh, by the bye, Mr. Cranston," she went on, "I was forgetting to ask
how your little grandchild is. Have you seen her lately?"
Old Cranston's face brightened.
"She is very well, madam, I thank you," he replied. "And I am pleased to
say that she is coming to stay with us shortly. We hope to keep her
through the winter. Her stepmother is very kind, but with little
children of her own, it is not always easy for her to give as much
attention as she would like to Myra, and she and Mr. Raby have responded
cordially to our invitation."
"I am very glad to hear it--very glad indeed," said mamma. "I know what
a pleasure it will be to you and Mrs. Cranston. Let me see--how old is
the little girl now--seven, eight?"
"_Nine_, madam, getting on for ten indeed," said Mr. Cranston with
pride.
"Dear me," said mamma, "how time passes! I remember seeing her when she
was a baby--before we came to live here, of course, once when I was
staying at Fernley, just after----"
Mamma stopped and hesitated.
"Just after her poor mother died--yes, madam," said the old man quietly.
And then we left, Mr. Cranston respectfully holding the door open.
It was growing quite dark; the street-lamps were lighted and their gleam
was reflected on the pavement, for it had been raining and was still
quite wet underfoot. Mamma looked round her.
"You had better put on your mackintosh, Haddie," she said. "It may rain
again. No, Geraldine dear, there is no use opening your umbrella till it
does rain."
My feelings were divided between pride in my umbrella and some
reluctance to have it wet! I took hold of mamma's arm again, while
Haddie walked at her other side. It was not a very cheerful prospect
before us--the gloomy dirty streets of Mexington were now muddy and
sloppy as well--though on the whole I don't know but that they looked
rather more cheerful by gaslight than in the day. It was chilly too, for
the season was now very late autumn, if not winter. But little did we
care--I don't think there could have been found anywhere two happier
children than my brother and I that dull rainy evening as we trotted
along beside our mother. There was the feeling of _her_ to take care of
us, of our cheerful home waiting for us, with a bright fire and the
tea-table all spread. If I had not been a little tired--for we had
walked a good way--in my heart I was just as ready to skip along on the
tips of my toes as when we first came out.
"We may stop at Miss Fryer's, mayn't we, mamma?" said Haddie.
"Well, yes, I suppose I promised you something for tea," mamma replied.
"How much may we spend?" he asked. "Sixpence--do say sixpence, and then
we can get enough for you to have tea with us too."
"Haddie," I said reproachfully, "as if we wouldn't give mamma something
however little we had!"
"We'd offer it her of course, but you know she wouldn't take it," he
replied. "So it's much better to have really enough for all."
His way of speaking made mamma laugh again.
"Then I suppose it must be sixpence," she said, "and here we are at Miss
Fryer's. Shall we walk on, my little girl, I think you must be tired,
and let Haddie invest in cakes and run after us?"
"Oh no, please mamma, dear," I said, "I like so to choose too."
Half the pleasure of the sixpence would have been gone if Haddie and I
had not spent it together.
"Then I will go on," said mamma, "and you two can come after me
together."
She took out her purse and gave my brother the promised money, and then
with a smile on her dear face--I can see her now as she stood in the
light of the street-lamp just at the old Quakeress's door--she nodded to
us and turned to go.
I remember exactly what we bought, partly, perhaps, because it was our
usual choice. We used to think it over a good deal first and each would
suggest something different, but in the end we nearly always came back
to the old plan for the outlay of our sixpence, namely, half-penny
crumpets for threepence--that meant _seven_, not six; it was the
received custom to give seven for threepence--and half-penny Bath buns
for the other threepence--seven of them too, of course. And _Bath_ buns,
not plain ones. You cannot get these now--not at least in any place
where I have lived of late years. And I am not sure but that even at
Mexington they were a _specialite_ of dear old Miss Fryer's. They were
so good; indeed, everything she sold was thoroughly good of its kind.
She was so honest, using the best materials for all she made.
That evening she stood with her usual gentle gravity while we discussed
what we should have, and when after discarding sponge-cakes and
finger-biscuits, which we had thought of "for a change," and partly
because finger-biscuits weighed light and made a good show, we came
round at last to the seven crumpets and seven buns, she listened as
seriously and put them up in their little paper bags with as much
interest as though the ceremony had never been gone through before. And
then just as we were turning to leave, she lifted up a glass shade and
drew out two cheese-cakes, which she proceeded to put into another paper
bag.
Haddie and I looked at each other. This was a lovely present. What a tea
we should have!
"I think thee will find these good," she said with a smile, "and I hope
thy dear mother will not think them too rich for thee and thy brother."
She put them into my hand, and of course we thanked her heartily. I have
often wondered why she never said, "thou wilt," but always "thee will,"
for she was not an uneducated woman by any means.
Laden with our treasures Haddie and I hurried home. There was mamma
watching for us with the door open. How sweet it was to have her always
to welcome us!
"Tea is quite ready, dears," she said. "Run upstairs quickly, Geraldine,
and take off your things, they must be rather damp. I am going to have
my real tea with you, for I have just had a note from your father to say
he won't be in till late and I am not to wait for him."
Mamma sighed a little as she spoke. I felt sorry for her disappointment,
but, selfishly speaking, we sometimes rather enjoyed the evenings father
was late, for then mamma gave us her whole attention, as she was not
able to do when he was at home. And though we were very fond of our
father, we were--I especially, I think--much more afraid of him than of
our mother.
And that was such a happy evening! I have never forgotten it. Mamma was
so good and thoughtful for us, she did not let us find out in the least
that she was feeling anxious on account of something father had said in
his note to her. She was just perfectly sweet.
We were very proud of our spoils from Miss Fryer's. We wanted mamma to
have one cheesecake and Haddie and I to divide the other between us. But
mamma would not agree to that. She would only take a half, so that we
had three-quarters each.
"Wasn't it kind of Miss Fryer, mamma?" I said.
"Very kind," said mamma. "I think she is really fond of children though
she is so grave. She has not forgotten what it was to be a child
herself."
Somehow her words brought back to my mind what old Mr. Cranston had said
about his little grand-daughter.
"I suppose children _are_ all rather like each other," I said. "Like
about Haddie, and that little girl riding on the lions."
Haddie was not very pleased at my speaking of it; he was beginning to be
afraid of seeming babyish.
"That was _quite_ different," he said. "She was a baby and had to be
held on. It was the fun of climbing up _I_ cared for."
"She wasn't a baby," I said. "She's nine years old, he said she
was--didn't he, mamma?"
"You are mixing two things together," said mamma. "Mr. Cranston was
speaking first of his daughter long ago when she was a child, and then
he was speaking of _her_ daughter, little Myra Raby, who is now nine
years old."
"Why did he say my 'poor' daughter?" I asked.
"Did you not hear the allusion to her death? Mrs. Raby died soon after
little Myra was born. Mr. Raby married again--he is a clergyman not very
far from Fernley----"
"A clergyman," exclaimed Haddie. He was more worldly-wise than I, thanks
to being at school. "A clergyman, and he married a shopkeeper's
daughter."
"There are very different kinds of shopkeepers, Haddie," said mamma.
"Mr. Cranston is very rich, and his daughter was very well educated and
very nice. Still, no doubt Mr. Raby was in a higher position than she,
and both Mr. Cranston and his wife are very right-minded people, and
never pretend to be more than they are. That is why I was so glad to
hear that little Myra is coming to stay with them. I was afraid the
second Mrs. Raby might have looked down upon them perhaps."
Haddie said no more about it. And though I listened to what mamma said,
I don't think I quite took in the sense of it till a good while
afterwards. It has often been like that with me in life. I have a
curiously "retentive" memory, as it is called. Words and speeches remain
in my mind like unread letters, till some day, quite unexpectedly,
something reminds me of them, and I take them out, as it were, and find
what they really meant.
But just now my only interest in little Myra Raby's history was a
present one.
"Mamma," I said suddenly, "if she is a nice little girl like what her
mamma was, mightn't I have her to come and see me and play with me? I
have never had any little girl to play with, and it is so dull
sometimes--the days that Haddie is late at school and when you are busy.
Do say I may have her--I'm sure old Mr. Cranston would let her come, and
then I might go and play with her sometimes perhaps. Do you think she
will play among the furniture--where the lions are?"
Mamma shook her head.
"No, dear," she answered. "I am quite sure her grandmother would not
like that. For you see anybody might come into the shop or show-rooms,
and it would not seem nice for a little girl to be playing there--not
nice for a carefully brought-up little girl, I mean."
"Then I don't think I should care to go to her house," I said, "but I
would like her to come here. Please let her, mamma dear."
But mamma only said,
"We shall see."
After tea she told us stories--some of them we had heard often before,
but we never tired of hearing them again--about when she and Aunty Etta
were little girls. They were lovely stories--real ones of course. Mamma
was not as clever as Aunty Etta about making up fairy ones.
We were quite sorry when it was time to go to bed.
After I had been asleep for a little that night I woke up again--I had
not been very sound asleep. Just then I saw a light, and mamma came into
the room with a candle.
"I'm not asleep, dear mamma," I said. "Do kiss me again."
"That is what I have come for," she answered.
And she came up to the bedside and kissed me, oh so sweetly--more than
once. She seemed as if she did not want to let go of me.
"Dear mamma," I whispered sleepily, "I _am_ so happy--I'm always happy,
but to-night I feel so _extra_ happy, somehow."
"Darling," said mamma.
And she kissed me again.