STORIES TELLING.
"This is the cock that crowed in the morn."
Late that night, no, very early the next morning, just as dawn was
breaking, the peacefully sleeping inhabitants of Mr. Caryll's house were
awakened by strange and alarming sounds which seemed to come from the
direction of the nursery. The children's mother was one of the first to
wake, and yet the sounds which had roused her having been heard
indistinctly through her sleep, she was not able to say what they were.
"It must be one of the children with croup--I am sure it sounded like
what I have heard croup described, or like that dreadful illness they
call the crowing cough," she said to Mr. Caryll, as she rushed out of
the room in a fright.
She had only got to the end of the long passage leading to the
children's rooms when she ran against Miss King, closely followed by her
maid and one, two, three other servants all pale and alarmed.
"What can it be?" each said to the other.
"Martin, Martin," cried Mrs. Caryll, "are you there? What _is_ the
matter?"
But before any Martin was to be seen, again the sounds shrilled through
the house.
"Kurroo--kurallarrallo-oo-_ook!_" with a queer sudden sort of pull-up at
the end, it seemed to sound.
They all turned to look at each other.
"It must be a real cock," said Miss King, looking less frightened.
"It certainly doesn't sound like croup," said Mrs. Caryll.
"It's just one of them mischievous bantams, ma'am," said the cook, a
countrywoman who had made a study of cocks and hens. "They always give
that sort of catchy croak at the end of their crows. But, to be sure,
what a fright it's gave us all! And where can the creature be?"
As she spoke, Martin appeared at the end of the passage, a basket in her
arms, her face pale, leading by the hand a small figure in a white
nightgown, a figure that pulled and pushed and kicked valiantly in its
extreme reluctance to come any farther.
"I won't be takened to Mamma. I won't, I won't. I'm not naughty. It's
zou that's ugly and naughty," it screamed.
Mrs. Caryll gave a despairing glance at her cousin.
"Hoodie again!" she said.
Martin hastened forward as fast as she could, considering the
difficulties in her way.
"Oh, ma'am," she exclaimed, looking nearly ready to cry, "I am so sorry,
so sorry and ashamed to have such an upset in the house at this time of
the night, or morning, I should say. It really must seem with all these
troubles as if I wasn't fit to manage the children. And just as Miss
King has come, too. But oh dear, ma'am, I don't know _what_ to do with
Miss Hoodie and her queer ways."
"But what _is_ it, Martin? What has Hoodie been doing?" said Mrs.
Caryll, rather impatiently. "Stop crying, Hoodie. You _must_," she added
sternly, turning to the little girl, who was now regularly set agoing on
one of her roars.
Hoodie took not the slightest notice, but roared on. Her mother turned
again to Martin, shaking her head.
"No, ma'am," said Martin, "it's not the least use speaking to her. She
has wakened all the others, of course--first with that nasty creature
and then with her screaming."
"What nasty creature? For goodness' sake explain yourself, Martin."
"The cock, ma'am--the bantam cock," replied Martin, seeming quite
astonished that Mrs. Caryll did not know all about it by instinct. "Miss
Hoodie fetched it in in her basket, unbeknown to me, last night, and had
it hidden under her bed. The creature was quite quiet all night, as is
its nature, I suppose, and very likely frightened and not knowing where
it was. But this morning all of a sudden it started the most awful
screeching; it really sounded much worse than common crowing, or else it
was hearing it half in one's sleep like. I thought, to be sure, one of
those dear boys had got some awful fit. And to think it was nothing but
Miss Hoodie's naughtiness--real mischievous naughtiness." Martin
stopped, quite out of breath, and Hoodie's roars increased in violence.
"Had she really no reason for it but mischief?" said Miss King.
Martin hesitated.
"She did begin some nonsense, ma'am, about having brought it in to lay
an egg, or something like that."
"Hoodie," said Magdalen, "can't you leave off screaming and tell us
about it?"
"No," said Hoodie, stopping at once and with perfect ease, "I can't
leave off sc'eaming, and I won't. But I'll tell zou, 'cos it was for
zou. I brought the little cock in to lay a egg for zour breakfast, 'cos
zou said zou likened zem kite fresh, and now Martin's spoilt it all. Of
course it c'owed to tell me it was going to lay the egg, and now it
won't. It's all spoilt, and I _must_ sc'eam."
True to her determination she set to work again and roared so that it
was almost impossible to hear one's voice.
"What _shall_ we do with her?" said her mother.
"May I take her to my room?" said Cousin Magdalen. "It is farther away
from the other children, so she can't disturb them even if she screams
all day."
Hoodie stopped again as suddenly as before.
"I won't go to zour room," she said. "I don't like zou now--not one
bit."
Magdalen glanced at Mrs. Caryll.
"May I take my own way with her!" her glance seemed to say. Mrs. Caryll
nodded her head, and notwithstanding Martin's whispered warning, "Oh,
Miss King, you don't _know_ what a work you'll have with her," Magdalen
turned to Hoodie, and before the child in the least understood what she
was about, she had picked her up in her strong young arms and was half
way down the passage before Hoodie's surprise had given her breath to
begin her roars again.
She was opening her mouth to do so, when her cousin stopped for a
moment.
"Now, Hoodie," she said, "_listen_. It was kind of you to want to get me
a quite fresh egg for my breakfast, but it isn't kind of you at all to
make that disagreeable noise, and to kick and fight so because I want to
take you to my room."
"I don't care," said Hoodie, "I don't like zou, and I will cry if I
like. I don't like any people."
"I am very sorry to find you are so silly," said Cousin Magdalen. "If
you were older and understood better you would not talk like that."
"I would if I liked," persisted Hoodie. "Big peoples can do whatever zey
likes, and if I was big I could too."
"Big people _can't_ do whatever they like," said Miss King, "and nice
big people never like to do things that other people don't like too."
"Don't zey?" said Hoodie, meditatively. By this time they were safely
shut into Miss King's room and Hoodie was plumped down into the middle
of her cousin's bed--"Don't zey? Zen I don't want to be a nice big
people. I want to be the kind that does whatever zey likes zerselves."
Miss King gave a slight sigh--half of amusement, half of despair. She
was beginning to understand that Hoodie's reformation was indeed no easy
matter.
"Very well, then. You had better go on screaming if you like it so
much," she said, sitting down on the side of the bed and wondering to
herself what would become of the world, if all the children in it were
as tiresome to manage as Hoodie. In at the window the daylight was
creeping timidly; all kinds of pretty colours were to be seen in the
sky, and the birds were beginning their cheerful chatter. Still it was
very early, and poor cousin Magdalen was sleepy. Was there _anything_
that could make Hoodie go to sleep for an hour or two?
"The little birds in the nests are kind to each other. They don't wake
each other up in the night and scream so that there is no peace. I
wonder why children can't be good too," she said.
"I'm _not_ sc'eaming," said Hoodie indignantly. "I've stoppened."
"I'm glad to hear it. But if I get into bed and lie down and try to go
to sleep, perhaps you'll begin again, as you don't care for what other
people like."
Hoodie was silent for a minute.
"Does you want to go to sleep?"
"Yes," said Magdalen. "I'm very tired."
"Zen I won't sc'eam."
Her cousin felt inclined to clap her hands, but wisely forbore.
"Thank you," she said quietly, as she lay down.
Hoodie wriggled.
"No, zou isn't to say zank zou," she said. "I don't like zou. I don't
like any people, 'cos they stopped my getting zat nice fresh egg. I
won't get zou eggs no more. I don't like zou."
"Very well," said her cousin.
Some minutes' quiet followed. Then Hoodie's voice again.
"When will zou tell us that story?" she inquired coolly.
"What story?"
"Zat story about oldwashion fairies, or some'sing like zat."
"Oh, I said I'd try to think of a story for you," said Miss King,
sleepily. "Well, I won't forget."
"Zou must get it ready quick," said Hoodie. "Zou must tell it me, zou
know, 'cos I've been so good about not sc'eaming."
"But not now. You don't want me to tell you stories _now_," said her
cousin in alarm.
"No, zou may go to sleep now," replied Hoodie, condescendingly, adding
after a moment's pause, "_I_ can tell stories, lovely stories."
"Can you? well, you had better think of one, and have it all ready,"
said Magdalen in fresh alarm.
"Mine's is always zeady, but zou may go to sleep now," was the reply, to
her great relief, the truth being that Hoodie herself was as sleepy as
she could be, for in two minutes her soft even breathing told that for a
while her fidgety little spirit was at rest.
Magdalen lay awake some time longer. In a half-dreamy way she was
thinking over in her own mind the old fairy tales she had loved as a
little girl--with them there mingled in her fancy the scenes and
memories of her own childhood. She was glad to find Hoodie so eager for
stories, it might be one way of winning the strange-tempered little
creature's confidence, and she tried to call to mind some of the tales
most likely to interest her. And somehow, "between sleeping and waking,"
there came back to her mind the shadow of a fanciful little story she
had either read or heard or imagined long ago, and as she fell asleep
she said to herself, "Yes, that will do. I will tell them the story of
'The Chintz Curtains.'"
When Magdalen awoke again that morning it was, as might have been
expected, a good deal later than usual. Hoodie was still sleeping
soundly. Magdalen got up and dressed quietly. She was nearly quite ready
when Hoodie awoke. A little movement in the bed caught Miss King's
notice: she turned round. There was Hoodie, staring at her with
wide-open eyes.
"Well, Hoodie," she said, "how are you this morning?"
Hoodie did not reply, but continued staring, so her cousin went on
fastening up her hair. In a minute or two there came a remark, or
question rather.
"Has zou had a nice sleep?"
[Illustration: "Has zou had a nice sleep?"]
"Yes, thank you."
"Has zou thinkened of a story?"
"Yes," said Magdalen. "I almost think I have."
"_I_ has too," said Hoodie, with a queer twinkle in her eyes.
"Have you," said her cousin, "that's very clever of you."
"Yes," replied the little girl, "zou didn't know Hoodie was so c'ever,
did zou?"
"You'd better tell me the story first, and then I'll say what I think of
it," said Magdalen.
"Now?" inquired Hoodie, "sall I tell it now? It isn't a long one."
"If you like," replied Magdalen, "you can tell it me while I finish
doing my hair."
"Well," began Hoodie, solemnly, "just a long time ago--oh no, that's a
mistake, it should be just '_onst_--'"
"Or 'once,'" corrected her cousin, "'once' is a proper word, and 'onst'
isn't."
"I don't care," said Hoodie, frowning. "I like to say 'onst.' If zou
don't zink my words pretty you'll make one come, and if one comes I
can't tell you stories."
"Very well," said Magdalen, remembering Maudie's explanation of the
mysterious phrase, "very well. I won't interrupt you. You may say any
words you like."
"Well then," began Hoodie again. "_Onst_ there was a little girl. She
was called--no, I won't tell zou what she was called--she had a papa and
mamma and bruvvers and a sister, but zey didn't like her much."
She stopped.
"Dear me," said Magdalen, finding she was expected to say something,
"that was very sad."
"Yes," said Hoodie, "vezy sad."
"Why didn't they like her?"
"'Cos zey thoughtened she was naughty. Zey was alvays saying she was
naughty."
"Perhaps she was," said Magdalen.
"Nebber mind," said Hoodie, "I want to go on. One day a lady comed what
wasn't _hern_ godmozer, so she didn't like her, and she toldened her she
was ugly. But zen--oh zen she founded out that she wasn't ugly but she
was pretty, vezy, vezy pretty--oh, she was so nice, and the little girl
liked her vezy much--wasn't zat a nice story?"
"Beautiful," said Miss King. "All except the part about her papa and
mamma and sister and brothers not liking her. I don't like that part."
"Nebber mind," replied Hoodie again. "Nebber mind about zat part zen.
Doesn't zou like about the lady? Can zou guess who it was?"
"Let me see," said Magdalen, solemnly. "I must think. A lady came that
wasn't _her_ godmother--dear me, who could it be?"
"It was zou; it was zou," cried Hoodie, jumping up in bed and rushing at
her cousin. "And the little girl was Hoodie, 'cos I do like zou now. I
do, I do, and I'll be vezy good all day, to please you."
"That's my dear little girl," said Cousin Magdalen, really gratified.
"But won't you try to be good to please your papa and mamma too--and
most of all, Hoodie dear, to please God."
She lowered her voice a little, and Hoodie looked at her gravely.
"I don't know," she said. "I couldn't try such a long time and zey
_alvays_ says I'm naughty. No, I'll just please zou; nobody else, and if
zou aren't pleased, I'll sc'eam. I can sc'eam in a minute."
Magdalen grew alarmed.
"Please don't," she said. "I'll be very pleased if you don't. And when
you see how nice it is to please me, perhaps you'll go on trying to
please everybody."
Hoodie shook her head.
"Zey _alvays_ says I'm naughty," she repeated.
Just then there came a knock at the door, and Martin put her head in.
"Is Miss Hoodie awake yet, ma'am?" she inquired. "And I do hope she's
let you have some sleep?"
"Oh, yes indeed, thank you, Martin," said Miss King, cheerfully. "We
have got on _very_ well, haven't we, Hoodie? And I think you are going
to have a very good little girl in the nursery to-day."
"I hope so, I'm sure, ma'am," said Martin, rather dolefully. Her tone
did not sound as if her hopes were very high, and Hoodie's next remark
did not make them higher.
"Yes," she said, "I is going to be good--vezy, vezy good, _too_ good.
But it isn't to please zou, Martin. It's all to please _her_," pointing
to Miss King, "and not zou, one bit. 'Cos I like her; she didn't scold
me about the cock--she zanked me, and she's going to tell me a story."
"Hoodie," said Magdalen gravely, "I don't call it beginning to be good
to tell Martin you don't care to please her one bit."
"Can't please ev'ybody," said Hoodie, with a toss of her shaggy head;
"takes such a long time."
"But speaking that way to Martin doesn't please _me_," persisted
Magdalen.
"Very well zen, I won't," said Hoodie, with unusual amiability. "I'll
give Martin a kiss if you like. Only you must have the story ready the
minute moment Maudie's done her letsons--will zou?"
"Yes," said Magdalen, "it'll be quite ready."
So Hoodie went off triumphantly in Martin's arms, things looking so
promising that by the time they reached the nursery, the two were the
best of friends.
And, "what a nice little young lady you might be, Miss Hoodie," said
Martin, encouragingly, "if you was always good."
* * * * *
Magdalen was ready for the children as she had promised. It was such a
mild beautiful day, though only April, that she got leave to take them
out-of-doors for the story-telling, and in a favourite corner, sunny yet
sheltered, they settled their little camp-stools in a circle round her
and prepared to listen.
"Only," said wise Maudie, "if Hec and Duke get very tired they may run
about a little, mayn't they, Cousin Magdalen?"
"If even they get a _little_ tired they may run about," said her
godmother. "But I don't think they will. It is a sort of nonsense story,
not clever enough to tire any of you."
"What's it called, please?" said Maudie.
"I'm not sure that it has a name," said Magdalen, "but if you'd rather
it had one, we'll call it 'The Chintz Curtains.'"
"Please begin then, and say it in very little words for Hec and Duke to
understand, won't you?"
Magdalen nodded her head, and began.
"Once," she said, "once there was a little girl."
"That's how my story began," said Hoodie, with the funny twinkle in her
eyes again.
"Never mind, _don't_ interrumpt," said Maudie.
"Well," Magdalen went on, "this little girl had no brothers or sisters,
and though her father and mother were very kind to her she was sometimes
rather lonely. And she often wished for other children to play with her.
It happened one winter that she got ill--I am not sure what the illness
was--measles, or something like that, it wasn't anything very, very bad,
but still she was ill enough to be several days quite in bed, and
several more partly in bed, and even after that a good many more before
she could get up early to breakfast as usual, and do her lessons and run
about in the garden, and play like _well_ children. She didn't much mind
being ill, not as much as you would, I don't think. For, you see, except
just for the few days that she felt weak and giddy and really ill,
staying in bed didn't seem to make very much difference to her, indeed
in some ways it was rather nicer. She had lots of storybooks to
read--several of her friends sent her presents of new ones--and
certainly more dainty things to eat than when she was well--"
"Delly?" said Hec. "Duke and me had delly when we was ill."
"Yes," said Maudie, "last winter Hec and Duke had the _independent_
fever, and they had to have jelly and beef-tea and things like that to
make them strong again."
"Yes," said Magdalen, "that was why Lena--I forgot to tell you that that
was the little girl's name--that was why they gave all those nice things
to little Lena. But the worst of it was she didn't like them nearly as
much as when she was well, and she often wished they would give her just
common things, bread and butter and rice-pudding, you know, when she was
ill, and keep all the very nice things for a treat when she was well and
could enjoy them. She was getting well, of course; by the time it comes
to thinking about what you have to eat, children generally are getting
well; but she was rather slow about it, and even when she was up and
about again as usual, she didn't _feel_ or look a bit like usual. She
was thin and white, and whatever she did tired her. Something queer
seemed to have come over all her dolls and toys; they had all grown
stupid in some tiresome way, and when she tried to sew, which she was
generally rather clever at, all her fingers seemed to have turned into
thumbs."
"How dedful," said Hoodie, stretching out her two chubby hands and
gravely gazing at them. "All zumbs wouldn't look pretty at all. I hope
mine won't never be like that if I get ill."
"My dear Hoodie," said Magdalen, as soon as she could speak for
laughing. "I didn't mean it that way. Not _really_. I just meant that
her fingers had got clumsy, you know, with her being weak and ill. It is
just a way of speaking."
"Oh!" said Hoodie, rather mystified still, "I'm glad them wasn't
_zeally_ all zumbs."
"Only, Hoodie, I _do_ wish"--began Maudie, but Magdalen went on before
she had time to finish her sentence.
"And as the days went on and she didn't seem to be getting back to be
like herself, her mother grew rather anxious about her.
"'We must do something about Lena,' she said to her father, 'she is not
getting strong again. The doctor says she should have a change of air,
but I don't see how to manage it. I cannot leave home while my mother is
so ill,'--for Lena's grandmother lived with them and was rather an old
and delicate lady--'and you, of course, cannot.'
"Lena's father was always very busy. It was seldom he could leave home,
not very often, indeed, that he had time to see much of his little girl,
even at home. But he was very fond of her, and anxious to do everything
for her good. So he and her mother talked it well over together, and at
last they thought of a good plan, and when it was all settled her mother
told Lena about it.
"She called her to her one day when the little girl was sitting rather
sadly trying to amuse herself with her dolls. But her head ached, and
all her ideas seemed to have gone out of her mind. She could not think
of any new plays for them, and she began to fancy their faces looked
stupid.
"'I almost think I'm getting too big for dolls,' she was saying to
herself, when she heard her mother's voice calling her. And she slowly
got down from her chair and went up-stairs to the drawing-room, where
her mother was sitting writing.
"'Are you very tired, dear?' she said kindly.
"'Yes, mamma, I think so,' said Lena, as if she didn't much care whether
she was tired or not.
"'You seem often tired now, my poor little girl,' said her mother. 'I
think it is that you have not got properly strong since you were ill.
The doctor says a change of air would be the best thing for you, but
just now neither your father nor I can leave home. Would you mind very
much going away for a little without us?'
"'Would it be very far, mamma?' said Lena. She liked the idea of going
away, she had not often left home, and she had a great fancy for
travelling, but still you can understand to go quite away without either
her father or mother seemed rather lonely."
"Hadn't she a nice nurse?" asked Maudie.
"No, she hadn't a nurse quite all for herself. She was the only child,
you know, and her father and mother were not very rich people, so the
maid who waited on her had other work to do too. Her mother went on to
explain to her that it was not to any very far-away place they thought
of her going. It was to a pretty little sheltered village near the sea,
where in an old-fashioned farmhouse there lived a very kind old woman
who had been her mother's nurse long before Lena was born. Lena had seen
her two or three times and liked her very much, and Mrs. Denny, that was
the old nurse's name, had often told her about her pretty home where she
lived with her son, who had never married, and for many years had taken
care of this farm for the gentleman it belonged to. Mrs. Denny had
promised Lena that if she came to see her she should have as much new
milk as she could drink, and plenty of quite fresh eggs, and all sorts
of nice country things. She had also promised her a particular bedroom
all to herself--and Lena had forgotten none of these things, so that
when her mother told her that it was to Rockrose Farm they were thinking
of sending her, Lena, in her quiet way, felt quite pleased. She was not
a little girl that made a fuss about things--she had lived too much
alone to be anything but quiet--and just now she felt too tired to seem
very eager. But her mother was pleased to see the bright look that came
into her eyes, and to hear the cheerful sound in her voice when she
replied, 'Oh, if it is to Mrs. Denny's, mamma, I should like to go
_very_ much. And I wonder if she will let me sleep in the room where the
bed has such beautiful chintz curtains, all covered with pictures,
mamma?'
"Her mother smiled.
"'I daresay she will, dear,' she said. 'I'm just writing to nurse now,
and if you like I'll ask her to be sure to let you have the
bedroom--with----'"