HOODIE GOES IN SEARCH OF A GRANDMOTHER.
"I care for nobody, no, not I,
And nobody cares for me!"
Martin went on with her story:
"'Janie!' cried grandmother when she saw me. 'What a nice picture they
make--my little granddaughter and your great dog--don't they?' she said
to the gamekeeper.
"'And it was _your_ basket, little Janie, that he found at the stile,
then,' said the dog's master, and then he and grandmother explained,
that walking along the road--grandmother was going up with him to see
his wife who was ill--the dog who was following them had suddenly darted
to one side and then crept from under the hedge with the basket in his
mouth. They couldn't think whose it was, for no one was to be seen
about, but when grandmother started to come home again the dog would
follow her with it still in his mouth, so Roberts, that was the man's
name, came along with her to see the end of it. Now wasn't it clever of
the dog to know it was mine and bring it to me like that?"
"_Very_," said the children. "But mightn't your grandmother have known
it was your mother's basket?" said Magdalen.
"It was a common enough one, but if she had looked inside she'd have
known mother's butter and cake, I daresay," said Martin. "But the funny
thing was, the dog would let no one touch it but me--he growled at
grandmother when she tried to look in, but he stood by and saw me take
out the things and just wagged his tail."
"And did zou have nice tea, and cake, Martin?" said Hec.
"Oh yes, dears, very nice. But for all that it cured me of setting down
baskets or anything like that when I had to take them anywhere. For you
see it isn't every dog that would have had the sense of that one."
"And then he _might_ have been a woof," suggested Hoodie. "The picture
says a woof."
"Yes," said Maudie. "But this isn't the picture story, Hoodie. This was
a real story of Martin herself, you know, for there aren't wolfs now."
"Not none?" said Hoodie.
"No, of course not."
Hoodie nodded her head, but made no further remark, and the nursery
party congratulated themselves on the astonishing success of their
endeavours to "put her crying fit out of her head."
This happy state of things lasted nearly all day. Hoodie was really most
agreeable. She was rather more silent than usual, but, for her,
surprisingly amiable.
Martin was delighted.
"Take my word for it, Miss Maudie," she said, "the only way with a child
like her, is to take no notice and talk of something else."
"But we can't always do that way, Martin,"--Maudie was not of a sanguine
temperament,--"sometimes, you know, she's naughty about things that you
_must_ go on talking to her about, till you get her to do them."
"I can't help it, Miss Maudie," said Martin. "Talk or no talk, it's my
belief that no power on earth will get Miss Julian to do what she wants
not to do. And folks can't live always quarrel--quarrelling. She may
improve of herself like, when she gets older, but as she is now, I
really think the less notice she gets the better."
Maudie felt rather puzzled. She was only nine years old herself,
remember, and Hoodie's queer ways were enough to puzzle much wiser heads
than hers.
"I don't think Martin's way would do," she said to herself, "but still I
think there must be _some_ way that would make her gooder if only we
could find it."
The children all went to church in the afternoon. The morning service
was too long for them, their mother sensibly thought, but the afternoon
hour, or hour and a quarter at most, no one, not even wee Hec and Duke,
found too much. And Hoodie was rather fond of going to church. What she
thought of, perched up by herself in her own corner of the pew, no one
ever knew; that she listened, or attempted to listen, to what was going
on, was doubtful in the extreme. But still, as a rule, church had a
soothing effect on her, the quiet and restfulness, the monotony itself,
seemed to calm her fidgety querulousness; possibly even the sensation of
her Sunday clothes and the admiring glances of the little
school-children helped to smooth her down for the time being.
This special Sunday afternoon their mother was not with them. They went
and returned under Martin's convoy, and till about half way on their way
home again all went satisfactorily. Then unfortunately occurred the
first ruffle. Maudie had been walking on in front with little Duke,
Hoodie and Hec, each with a hand of Martin, behind, when Maudie stopped.
"Martin," she said, "may Duke walk with you a little? He says he's
tired."
"Of course, poor dear," said Martin; "come here, Master Duke, and you,
Miss Hoodie, go on a little with your sister."
Hoodie let go Martin's hand readily enough.
"Wonders will never cease," thought Martin, but alas, her rejoicing was
premature. Hoodie let go her hand, but stood stock still without moving.
"No," she said deliberately, "I won't walk with Maudie. Why can't Hec
walk with Maudie, and me stay here?"
"Because he's such a little boy, Miss Hoodie dear, and I daresay both he
and Master Duke are getting tired. They've had a long walk you know."
Martin was forgetting her own advice to Maudie. He who stopped to reason
with Hoodie was lost indeed!
"And so has me had a long walk, and so you might daresay me is tired
too," returned Hoodie, standing her ground both actually and
figuratively. Two fat little legs apart, two sturdy little feet planted
firmly on the ground, there she stood looking up defiantly in Martin's
face, armed for the fight.
"Was there ever such a child?" thought poor Martin. Maudie's words had
indeed been quickly fulfilled--here already was a case in which the
taking-no-notice system was impossible--the child could not be left by
herself on the high-road, where according to present appearances it was
evidently her intention to stay unless--she got her own way!
"Well, my dear, I daresay you are tired too," said Martin soothingly,
"but still not _so_ tired as poor little Duke. You're ever so much
bigger you know. Think what tiny little feet your brothers have to trot
all along the road on."
"Mines is tiny too. I heard you saying them was very tiny to Mamma one
day. And them's just as tired as Duke's; 'cos I'm bigger, my feets have
more heavy to carry. I _will_ have your hand, Martin, and I won't walk
with ugly Maudie."
"But you must, Miss Hoodie," said Martin, attempting firmness and
decision as a last resource.
"But I mustn't, 'cos I _won't_," said Hoodie.
Martin glanced back along the road despairingly. Several groups of the
country people on their way home from church were approaching the little
party as they stood on the footpath.
"Do come on, Martin," said Maudie; "it is so horrid for the people to
see such a fuss. And then they say all about that we are all naughty.
Look, there's farmer Bright and his daughters coming. Do come on--you'll
_have_ to let Hoodie walk with you, and Hec'll come with me."
"Miss Hoodie," said Martin once more, "you are to walk on with Miss
Maudie, do you hear?"
"Yes," said Hoodie, without moving an inch, "I hear, but I _won't_ walk
with ugly Maudie."
The Bright family were fast approaching. In despair Martin turned to
Hoodie.
"I am obliged to let you walk with me, Miss Julian," she said, solemnly,
"because I cannot have every one in the road see how naughty you are.
But when we get home I shall speak to your Mamma, and ask her to let you
go walks alone. You make us all miserable."
Hoodie took Martin's hand and marched on.
"I should like to go walks alone, werry much," she said, amiably, to
which remark Martin did not make any reply.
The Bright family passed them with a friendly word to Martin, saying
something in praise of the nice appearance of her little charges. And
Hoodie smiled back to farmer Bright, as if she thought herself the best
and sweetest-tempered of little girls. Then when they were out of
sight, she suddenly dropped Martin's hand.
"I don't want to walk with you. You're an ugly 'sing too," she said. "I
like to walk belone, but I would walk with you if I _said_ I would."
And on she marched defiantly, well in front of the whole party. And
again poor Martin murmured to herself,--"Was there _ever_ such a child?"
What was Hoodie saying to herself on in front where no one could hear
her?
"They don't love me. They like me to be away. Nobody loves poor Hoodie.
Hoodie can't be good when nobody loves her. It isn't Hoodie's fault."
And through her babyish brain there ran misty, dreamy ideas of something
she would do to make "them" all sorry--she would go away somewhere "far,
far," and never come back again. But where? This she could not yet
settle about, but fortunately for the peace of the rest of the walk her
cogitations kept her quiet till they were all at home again.
Martin's threat of speaking to Hoodie's mother was not at once carried
out. And Martin herself began to think better of it when at tea-time
Hoodie behaved herself quite respectably. The naughty mood had passed
again for the time, it seemed.
Sitting round the table in the intervals of bread-and-butter and
honey--for it was Sunday evening, "honey evening" the little boys called
it--the children chatted together pleasantly. Martin's story had greatly
impressed them.
"Weren't you frightened at first when you saw the big, big doggie,
Martin?" said Maudie.
"_Might_ have been a woof," remarked Duke, whose ideas had a knack of
getting so well lodged in his brain that it was often difficult to get
them out again.
"But there _are_ no wolfs. I told you so before," said Maudie.
"No," said Duke, "you toldened Hoodie so. You didn't tolden me."
"Well, _dear_ Duke, what does it matter?" said Magdalen, with a slight
touch of impatience in her tone. "You heard me say it, and you do go on
and on so about a thing."
Hoodie looked up with a twinkle in her eyes.
"Peoples always calls each other 'dear' whenever they doesn't like each
other," she remarked.
Maudie flashed round upon her.
"That isn't true. I do like Duke--don't I, Duke? And Hec too--don't I
love you dearly, Hec and Duke?"
The two little boys clambered down from their chairs, by slow and
ponderous degrees, and a hugging match of the three ensued.
"Children, children," cried Martin, "you know it's against the rules for
you to get down from your chairs at tea. Miss Maudie, dear, you
shouldn't encourage it."
"But Hoodie said unkind 'sings to Maudie, and we had to kiss dear
Maudie," said the little boys. "Naughty Hoodie," and they glanced round
indignantly at Hoodie.
A hard look came over Hoodie's face.
"Always naughty Hoodie," she muttered to herself. "Nobody loves Hoodie.
Nebber mind. Don't care."
"Little boys," said Martin, "you must go back to your seats and finish
your tea. And don't call Miss Hoodie naughty for nothing at all but a
little joke."
Hoodie gave a quick glance at Martin.
"Martin," she said, gravely, "if there is no woofs now, is there any
grandmothers?"
"Any grandmothers, Miss Hoodie?" repeated Martin. "How do you mean, my
dear? of course every one has a grandmother, or has had."
"Oh!" said Hoodie; "I didn't know. And is grandmothers always in
cottages?"
"Oh, you silly girl," said Maudie, laughing; "of course not. Don't you
remember _our_ grandmother? She was here two years ago. But I suppose
you're too little to remember."
"Don't laugh at her for not understanding, Miss Maudie," said Martin;
"besides, don't you remember your grandmother's address is Parkwood
Cottage? Very likely she's thinking of that."
"Yes," said Hoodie, "I was 'sinking of zat. I want a grandmother in a
cottage. Grandmother in a cottage would be very kind, and there is no
woofs."
"Oh no, Miss Hoodie, there are no wolves," said Martin; "all the wolves
were sent away long, long ago. Now, dears, you must have your hands
washed and your hairs brushed to go down to the drawing-room."
Hoodie was very quiet that evening. Her father noticed it after the
children had gone up to bed again, and said to her mother that he was in
hopes the child was going to turn over a new leaf. And her mother
replied with a smile that she had been speaking to her very seriously
that morning, and was glad to see how well the little girl had taken it.
So both father and mother felt satisfied and happy about the child,
little imagining the queer confused whirl of ideas at that very moment
chasing each other round her busy brain.
For Hoodie did not go to sleep till much later than the others, though
she lay so still that her wakefulness was unnoticed. Under her pillow,
wrapped up firstly in a piece of newspaper, over that in the clean
pocket-handkerchief Martin had given her for church, were three biscuits
she had got at dessert, two pieces of bread-and-butter, and one of bread
and honey, which unobserved she had "saved" from tea. What she meant to
do with these provisions was by no means clear, even in her own mind.
She only knew that the proper thing was to have a basket of eatables of
some kind, provided for a voyage of discovery such as that on which she
was resolved.
"The little Hoodie-girl in the picture has a bastwick, and Martin had a
bastwick when she was a Hoodie-girl," she said to herself dreamily. "I
will get more bead-and-butter to-morrow and then I can go. After
dinner-time Martin wented when she was a Hoodie-girl. I will go after
dinner-time too. The grandmother in the cottage will love Hoodie and
there is no woofs. Peoples here doesn't love Hoodie."
And so thinking she fell asleep.
The next morning happened to be rainy. Hoodie ate her breakfast in
silence, and what she did _not_ eat she quietly added to the contents of
the pocket-handkerchief parcel. Martin noticed her fumbling at
something, but thankful for the quiet state of the atmosphere--otherwise
Hoodie's temper--thought it wiser to make no remarks. For after all it
was a very April sort of sunshine; and two or three times before dinner
there were signs of possible storms--once in particular, when the little
boy had got Prince up into the nursery to play with them and Hoodie
insisted on turning him out.
"Him's not to come in here," she said; "Hoodie won't have him in here no
more."
"_Really_, Hoodie," said Maudie, "this isn't all your room. Why won't
you let poor Prince come in? It was only yesterday you were crying
because he wouldn't come."
"'Cos I loved him yesterday and I don't love him to-day," replied Hoodie
coolly.
"And how would you like if people spoke that way to you?" said Maudie
virtuously. "Suppose we said we wouldn't have you in the nursery 'cos we
don't love you to-day?"
"Don't care," said Hoodie. "You can't send _me_ out of the nursery. I'm
not a dog. But if I like I can go of my own self," she added
mysteriously. "And if peoples don't love me I _sall_ go."
Maudie did not catch the sense of the last few words, but Prince, being
in his own mind by no means partial to the nursery, where the
children's affection expressed itself in clutches and caresses very
unsettling to his nerves, had taken advantage of the discussion to go
off "of his own self," and in the lamentation over his running away, no
more was said, and it was not till afterwards that the elder girl
remembered her little sister's threat.
But through dinner-time the hard, half-sullen look stayed on Hoodie's
face, and again poor Martin shivered with fear that another storm was
coming. Somewhat to her surprise things got no worse--not even when a
message came up-stairs from "mother," that Maudie was to be ready to go
out a drive with her at two, did Hoodie's rather curiously quiet manner
desert her.
"I don't care. Nobody loves me," she repeated to herself, but so low
that no one heard her.
"It'll be your turn next time, you know, Hoodie dear. Mother never
forgets turns," said Magdalen consolingly, as, arrayed in her "best"
white alpaca trimmed with blue, and white hat with blue feathers to
match, she ran into the nursery to say good-bye to the stayers-at-home.
"And Miss Hoodie will be good and help me with the little boys, won't
you, Miss Hoodie dear?" said Martin. "There's some ironing I do want to
get done for your Mamma this afternoon, if I could leave you three
alone for a little."
"Susan may stay with them," said Mrs. Caryll, who just then came into
the nursery to see if Maudie was ready. "It is too damp still for the
boys to go out, but Hoodie can play in the garden a little. She never
catches cold and she will be the better for a run--eh, Hoodie?"
No answer. Mrs. Caryll turned to Martin with a question in her face.
"Anything wrong again?" it seemed to say.
Martin shook her head.
"I think not, ma'am," she said in a very low voice, "but really there's
no saying. But I think she'll be all right once you're started with Miss
Magdalen."
Mrs. Caryll said no more. She took Maudie by the hand and left the
nursery, only nodding good-bye to the little boys as she passed through
the doorway.
"Good-bye, darlings," said Maudie. "I'll bring you back something nice
for tea."
"Dood-bye, dear Maudie," called out Hec and Duke in return. Then they
flew--no, I can hardly use that word with regard to their sturdy little
legs' trot across the room--they trotted off to the window to see the
carriage as it passed the corner of the drive and to kiss their little
hands to Mamma and Maudie. And Hoodie remained determinedly looking out
of the other window, from which no drive and no carriage were to be
seen.
"Nobody calls me darling. Nobody cares for Hoodie," she said to herself.
"Nebber mind. Hoodie will go far, far."
When Martin called to her a few minutes afterwards, to put her hat and
jacket on for the run in the garden, which her mother had spoken of, she
came at once, and stood quite still while her nurse dressed her. The
submission struck Martin as rather suspicious.
"Now Miss Hoodie, my dear," she said, "you'll not go on the grass or
where it's wet. Just run about on the nice dry gravel for half an hour
or so, and if you see the gardener about, you may ask him to show you
the rabbits."
Hoodie looked up in Martin's face with a rather curious expression.
"I won't run in the grass," was all she said. Martin let her go off
without any misgiving. For all Hoodie's strange temper she was in some
ways a particularly sensible child for her age. She was quite to be
trusted to play alone in the garden, for instance--she might have been
safely left within reach of the most beautiful flowers in the
conservatory without any special warning; not one would have been
touched. She was truly, as Martin said, a strange mixture and
contradiction.
She had made her way half down the staircase, when she suddenly
remembered her basket.
"Oh, my bastwick," she exclaimed. "I was nearly forgetting my bastwick,"
and up-stairs again she climbed to the cupboard, in one dark corner of
which she had hidden it. Luckily it was still there; no one had touched
it; so feeling herself quite equipped for the journey, Hoodie walked out
of the front door, crossed the gravel drive, and made her way down a
little path with a rustic gate at the end leading straight out on to the
high road. When she got there she stood still and looked about her.
Which way should she go? It had turned out a beautiful afternoon, though
the morning had been so stormy. The road was nearly dry already, the sky
overhead was blue, save here and there where little feathery clouds were
flying about in some agitation; it might rain again before night, for
though not exactly cold, there was no summer glow as yet, and the
sunshine, though bright, had a very April feeling about it.
Hoodie stood still and looked about her, up and down the road. It was a
pretty, peaceful scene--the broad well-kept highway, bordered at one
side with beautiful old trees just bursting into bloom, and across, on
the other side of the low hedge, the fresh green fields, all the fresher
for the morning's rain, in some of which already the tender little
lambkins were sporting about or cuddling in by the side of their warm
woolly ewe-mothers.
"I wish I was a lamb," thought Hoodie, as her glance fell on them. Then
as she looked away beyond the fields to where in the distance the land
sloped upwards into softly rising hills, a flight of birds attracted her
attention. How prettily they flew, waving, now upwards, now downwards,
like one long ribbon against the sky. "Or a little bird," she added. "If
I was up there I could see so nicely where to go, and I could fly, fly,
till I got to the sun."
But just then the sound of wheels coming near brought her thoughts down
to earth again. Which way should she go?
She _must_ pass through a wood. That was the only thing that at present
she felt sure of, and there was a wood she remembered some way down the
road, past Mr. Bright's farm. So down the road Hoodie trotted, her
basket firmly clasped in her hand, her little figure the only moving
thing to be seen along the queen's highway. For the cart to which the
wheels belonged had passed quickly--it was only the grocer from the
neighbouring town, so on marched Hoodie undisturbed. A little on this
side of farmer Bright's a lane turned off to the left. This lane, Hoodie
decided, must be the way to the wood, so she left the road and went
along the lane for about a quarter of a mile, till, to her perplexity,
it ended in a sort of little croft with a stile at each side. Hoodie
climbed up both stiles in turns and looked about her. The wood was not
to be seen from either, but across a field from the second stile she saw
the tops of some trees standing on lower ground.
"That must be the wood," thought Hoodie, and down she clambered again to
fetch her basket which she had left on the other side. With some
difficulty she hoisted it and herself up again, with greater difficulty
got it and herself down the steps on the further side, and then set off
triumphantly at a run in the direction of the trees she had seen.
So far she was right. These trees were the beginning of a wood--a pretty
little wood with a tiny stream running through the middle, and little
nests of ferns and mosses in among the stones and tree-stumps on its
banks--a very pretty little wood it must be in summer-time with the
trees more fully out and the ground dry and crisp, and clear of the last
year's leaves which still gave it a desolate appearance. Hoodie's
spirits rose. She was getting on famously. Soon she might expect to see
the grandmother's cottage, where no doubt the kettle would be boiling on
the fire to make tea for her, and the table all nicely spread. For
already she was beginning to feel hungry; she had journeyed, it seemed
to her, a very long way, and more than once she eyed her basket
wistfully, wondering if she might eat just one piece of the
bread-and-butter.
"The little Hoodie-girl in the picture didn't, and Martin didn't," she
said to herself. "So I 'appose I'd better not. And perhaps if the woofs
saw me eating, it would make them come."
The idea made her shiver.
"But Maudie said there was no woofs," she added. "Maudie said there
wasn't no woofs. But I _wish_ I could see the cottage."
On and on she made her way,--here and there with really great
difficulty, for there was no proper path, and sometimes the big
tree-stumps were almost higher than her fat, rather short legs could
either stride across or climb over. More than once she scratched these
same bare legs pretty badly, and but for the resolution which was a
strong part of her character, the queer little girl would have sat down
on the ground and burst into tears. But she struggled on, and at last,
to her delight, the trees in front of her cleared suddenly, and she saw
before her a little hilly path surmounted by a stile. Hoodie clapped her
hands, or would have done so but for the interference of the basket.
"Hoodie's out of the wood," she said joyfully, "and up there perhaps
I'll see the cottage."
It happened that she was right. When she reached the stile, there, sure
enough, across another little field the cottage, _a_ cottage any way,
was to be seen. A neat little cottage, something like the description
Martin had given of _her_ grandmother's cottage, which, jumbled up with
the picture of long ago Red Riding Hood the first, on the nursery walls,
was in Hoodie's mind as a sort of model of that in quest of which she
had set out on her voyage of discovery. This cottage too had a little
garden with a path up the middle, and at each side were beds, neatly
bordered, which in summer-time no doubt would be gay with simple
flowers. Hoodie glanced round the little garden approvingly as she made
her way up to the door.
"It's just like Martin's cottage," she thought. "But the Hoodie-girl in
the picture was pulling somesing for the door to open and I don't see
nosing to pull. I must knock I 'appose. I am _so_ glad there's been none
woofs."
[Illustration: It's just like Martin's cottage]
Knock--knock--no answer. Knock, knock, _knock_ a little louder this
time. Hoodie began to wonder if the grandmother was going to be out,
like the one in Martin's story--no--a sound at last of some one coming
to open.