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[Illustration: Book Cover]
MY NEW HOME
[Illustration: 'I'd like to know your sisters that are as little as me's
names.'--p. 39.] _Front._
[Illustration: Title Page]
MY NEW HOME
by Mrs Molesworth
Illustrated by
L Leslie Brooke
Macmillan and Co
London: 1894
CONTENTS
CHAPTER I PAGE
WINDY GAP 1
CHAPTER II
AT THE FOOT OF THE LADDER 15
CHAPTER III
ONE AND SEVEN 28
CHAPTER IV
NEW FRIENDS AND A PLAN 43
CHAPTER V
A HAPPY DAY 58
CHAPTER VI
'WAVING VIEW' 71
CHAPTER VII
THE BEGINNING OF TROUBLES 83
CHAPTER VIII
TWO LETTERS 96
CHAPTER IX
A GREAT CHANGE 111
CHAPTER X
NO. 29 CHICHESTER SQUARE 125
CHAPTER XI
AN ARRIVAL 139
CHAPTER XII
A CATASTROPHE 153
CHAPTER XIII
HARRY 168
CHAPTER XIV
KEZIA'S COUNSEL 183
CHAPTER XV
'HAPPY EVER SINCE' 195
ILLUSTRATIONS
'I'd like to know your sisters that are as little as me's
names.' _Frontispiece_
Grandmamma's chair was still waiting to be decorated,
so the next hour was spent very happily. 67
'I do wonder why they are so late'. 82
A nice-looking oldish man came forward and bowed
respectfully to grandmamma. 126
It was the portrait of a young girl. 139
Up rushed two or three ... men, Cousin Cosmo the
first. 160
It was all uphill too. 173
CHAPTER I
WINDY GAP
My name is Helena, and I am fourteen past. I have two other Christian
names; one of them is rather queer. It is 'Naomi.' I don't mind having
it, as I am never called by it, but I don't sign it often because it is
such an odd name. My third name is not uncommon. It is just 'Charlotte.'
So my whole name is 'Helena Charlotte Naomi Wingfield.'
I have never been called by any short name, like 'Lena,' or 'Nellie.' I
think the reason must be that I am an only child. I have never had any
big brother to shout out 'Nell' all over the house, or dear baby sisters
who couldn't say 'Helena' properly. And what seems still sadder than
having no brothers or sisters, I have never had a mother that I could
remember. For mamma died when I was not much more than a year old, and
papa six months before that.
But my history has not been as sad as you might think from this. I was
very happy indeed when I was quite a little child. Till I was nine years
old I really did not know what troubles were, for I lived with
grandmamma, and she made up to me for everything I had not got: we loved
each other so very dearly.
I will tell you about our life.
Grandmamma was not at all the sort of person most children think of when
they hear of a grandmother in a story. She was not old, with white hair
and spectacles and always a shawl on, even in the house, and very
old-fashioned in her ways. She did wear caps, at least I _think_ she
always did, for, of course, she was not _young_. But her hair was very
nicely done under them, and they were pretty fluffy things. She made
them herself, and she made a great many other things herself--for me
too. For, you will perhaps wonder more than ever at my saying what a
happy child I was, when I tell you that we were really _very_ poor.
I cannot tell you exactly how much or how little we had to live upon,
and _most_ children would not understand any the better if I did. For a
hundred pounds a year even, sounds a great deal to a child, and yet it
is very little indeed for one lady by herself to live upon, and of
course still less for two people. And I don't think we had much more
than that. Grandmamma told me when I grew old enough to understand
better, that when I first came to live with her, after both papa and
mamma were dead, and she found that there was no money for me--that was
not poor papa's fault; he had done all that could be done, but the money
was lost by other people's wrong-doing--well, as I was saying, when
grandmamma found how it was, she thought over about doing something to
make more. She was very clever in many ways; she could speak several
languages, and she knew a lot about music, though she had given up
playing, and she might have begun a school as far as her cleverness
went. But she had no savings to furnish a large enough house with, and
she did not know of any pupils. She could not bear the thought of
parting with me, otherwise she might perhaps have gone to be some grand
sort of housekeeper, which even quite, _quite_ ladies are sometimes, or
she might have joined somebody in having a shop. But after a lot of
thinking, she settled she would rather try to live on what she had, in
some quiet, healthy, country place, though I believe she did earn some
money by doing beautiful embroidery work, for I remember seeing her make
lovely things which were never used in our house. This could not have
gone on for long, however, as granny's eyes grew weak, and then I think
she did no sewing except making our own clothes.
Now I must tell you about our home. It was quite a strange place to
grandmamma when we first came there, but _I_ can never feel as if it had
been so. For it was the first place I can remember, as I was only a year
old, or a little more--and children very seldom remember anything before
they are three--when we settled down at Windy Gap.
That was the name of our cottage. It is a nice breezy name, isn't it?
though it does sound rather cold. And in some ways it _was_ cold, at
least it was windy, and quite suited its name, though at some seasons of
the year it was very calm and sheltered. Sheltered on two sides it
always was, for it stood in a sort of nest a little way up the
Middlemoor Hills, with high ground on the north and on the east, so that
the only winds really to be feared could never do us much harm. It was
more a nest than a 'gap,' for inside, it was so cosy, so very cosy,
even in winter. The walls were nice and thick, built of rather
gloomy-looking, rough gray stone, and the windows were deep--deep enough
to have window-seats in them, where granny and I used often to sit with
our books or work, as the inner part of the rooms, owing to the shape of
the windows, was rather dark, and the rooms of course were small.
We had a little drawing-room, which we always sat in, and a still
smaller dining-room, which was very nice, though in reality it was more
a kitchen than a dining-room. It had a neat kitchen range and an oven,
and some things had to be cooked there, though there was another little
kitchen across the passage where our servant Kezia did all the messy
work--peeling potatoes, and washing up, and all those sorts of things,
you know. The dining-room-kitchen was used as little as possible for
cooking, and grandmamma was so very, very neat and particular that it
was almost as pretty and cosy as the drawing-room.
Upstairs there were three bedrooms--a good-sized one for grandmamma, a
smaller one beside it for me, and a still smaller one with a rather
sloping roof for Kezia. The house is very easy to understand, you see,
for it was just three and three, three upstairs rooms over three
downstairs ones. But there was rather a nice little entrance hall, or
closed-in porch, and the passages were pretty wide. So it did not seem
at all a poky or stuffy house though it was so small. Indeed, one could
scarcely fancy a 'Windy Gap Cottage' anything but fresh and airy, could
one?
I was never tired of hearing the story of the day that grandmamma first
came to Middlemead to look for a house. She told it me so often that I
seem to know all about it just as if I had been with her, instead of
being a stupid, helpless little baby left behind with my nurse--Kezia
was my nurse then--while poor granny had to go travelling all about,
house-hunting by herself!
What made her first think of Middlemead she has never been able to
remember. She did not know any one there, and she had never been there
in her life. She fancies it was that she had read in some book or
advertisement perhaps, that it was so very healthy, and dear
grandmamma's one idea was to make me as strong as she could; for I was
rather a delicate child. But for me, indeed, I don't think she would
have cared where she lived, or to live at all, except that she was so
very good.
'As long as any one is left alive,' she has often said to me, 'it shows
that there is something for them to be or to do in the world, and they
must try to find out what it is.'
But there was not much difficulty for grandmamma to find out what _her_
principal use in the world was to be! It was all ready indeed--it was
poor, little, puny, delicate, helpless _me_!
So very likely it was as she thought--just the hearing how splendidly
healthy the place was--that made her travel down to Middlemead in those
early spring days, that first sad year after mamma's death, to look for
a nest for her little fledgling. She arrived there in pretty good
spirits; she had written to a house-agent and had got the names of two
or three 'to let' houses, which she at once tramped off from the station
to look at, for she was very anxious not to spend a penny more than she
could help. But, oh dear, how her spirits went down! The houses were
dreadful; one was a miserable sort of genteel cottage in a row of others
all exactly the same, with lots of messy-looking children playing about
in the untidy strips of garden in front. _That_ would certainly not do,
for even if the house itself had been the least nice, grandmamma felt
sure I would catch measles and scarlet-fever and hooping-cough every
two or three days! The next one was a still more genteel 'semi-detached'
villa, but it was very badly built, the walls were like paper, and it
faced north and east, and had been standing empty, no doubt, for these
reasons, for years. _It_ would not do. Then poor granny plodded back to
the house agent's again. He isn't only a house agent, he has a
stationer's and bookseller's shop, and his name is Timbs. I know him
quite well. He is rather a nice man, and though she was a stranger of
course, he seemed sorry for grandmamma's disappointment.
'There are several very good little houses that I am sure you would
like,' he said to her, 'and one or two of them are very small--but it is
the rent. For though Middlemead is scarcely more than a village it is
much in repute for its healthiness, and the rents are rising.'
'What are the rents of the smallest of the houses you speak of?'
grandmamma asked.
'Forty pounds is the cheapest,' Mr. Timbs answered, 'and the situation
of that is not so good. Rather low and chilly in winter, and somewhat
lonely.'
'I don't mind about the loneliness,' said grandmamma, 'but a low or
damp situation would never do.'
Mr. Timbs was looking over his lists as she spoke. Her words seemed to
strike him, and he suddenly peered up through his spectacles.
'You don't mind about loneliness,' he repeated. 'Then I wonder----' and
he turned over the leaves of his book quickly. 'There _is_ another house
to let,' he said; 'to tell the truth I had forgotten about it, for it
has never been to let unfurnished before; and it would be considered too
lonely for all the year round by most people.'
'Are there no houses near?' asked grandmamma. 'I don't fancy Middlemead
is the sort of place where one need fear burglars, and besides,' she
went on with a little smile, 'we should not have much of value to steal.
The silver plate that I have I shall leave for the most part in London.
But in case of sudden illness or any alarm of that kind, I should not
like to be out of reach of everybody.'
'There are two or three small cottages close to the little house I am
thinking of,' said Mr. Timbs, 'and the people in them are very
respectable. I leave the key with one of them.'
Then he went on to tell grandmamma exactly where it was, how to get
there, and all about it, and with every word, dear granny said her
heart grew lighter and lighter. She really began to hope she had found
a nest for her poor little homeless bird--that was _me_, you
understand--especially when Mr. Timbs finished up by saying that the
rent was only twelve pounds a year, one pound a month. And she _had_
made up her mind to give as much as twenty pounds if she could find
nothing nice and healthy for less.
She looked at her watch; yes, there was still time to go to see Windy
Gap Cottage and yet get back to the station in time for the train she
had fixed to go back by--that is to say, if she took a fly. She has
often told me how she stood and considered about that fly. Was it worth
while to go to the expense? Yes, she decided it was, for after all if
she found nothing to suit us at Middlemead she would have to set off on
her travels again to house-hunt somewhere else. It would be penny wise
and pound foolish to save that fly.
Mr. Timbs seemed pleased when she said she would go at once--I suppose
so many people go to house agents asking about houses which they never
take, that when anybody comes who is quite in earnest they feel like a
fisherman when he has really hooked a fish. He grew quite eager and
excited and said he would go with the lady himself, if she would allow
him to take a seat beside the driver to save time. And of course granny
was very glad for him to come.
It was getting towards evening when she saw Windy Gap for the first
time, and it happened to be a very still evening--the name hardly seemed
suitable, and she said so to Mr. Timbs. He smiled and shook his head and
answered that he only hoped if she did come there to live that she would
not find the name _too_ suitable. Still, though there was a good deal of
wind to be _heard_, he went on to explain that the cottage was, as I
have already said, well sheltered on the cold sides, and also well and
strongly built.
'None of your "paper-mashy," one brick thick, run-up-to-tumble-down
houses,' said Mr. Timbs with satisfaction, which was certainly quite
true.
The end of it was, as of course you know already, that grandmamma fixed
to take it. She talked it all over with Mr. Timbs, who 'made notes,' and
promised to write to her about one or two things that could not be
settled at once, and then 'with a very thankful heart,' as she always
says when she talks of that day, she drove away again off to the
station.
The sun was just beginning to think about setting when she walked down
the little steep garden path and a short way over the rough, hill
cart-track--for nothing on wheels can come quite close up to the gate of
Windy Gap--and already she could see what a beautiful show there was
going to be over there in the west. She stood still for a minute to look
at it.
'Yes, madam,' said old Timbs, though she had not spoken, 'yes, that is a
sight worth adding a five pound note on to the rent of the cottage for,
in my opinion. The sunsets here are something wonderful, and there's no
house better placed for seeing them than Windy Gap. "Sunset View" it
might have been called, I have often thought.'
'I can quite believe what you say,' grandmamma replied, 'and I am very
glad to have had a glimpse of it on this first visit.'
Many and many a time since then have we sat or stood together there,
granny and I, watching the sun's good-night. I think she must have begun
to teach me to look at it while I was still almost a baby. For these
wonderful sunsets seem mixed up in my mind with the very first things I
can remember. And still more with the most solemn and beautiful thoughts
I have ever had. I always fancied when I was _very_ tiny that if only we
could have pushed away the long low stretch of hills which prevented
our seeing the very last of the dear sun, we should have had an actual
peep into heaven, or at least that we should have seen the golden gates
leading there. And I never watched the sun set without sending a message
by him to papa and mamma. Only in my own mind, of course. I never told
grandmamma about it for years and years. But I did feel sure he went
there every night and that the beautiful colours had to do with that
somehow.
Grandmamma felt as if the lovely glow in the sky was a sort of good omen
for our life at Windy Gap, and she felt happier on her journey back in
the railway that evening than she had done since papa and mamma died.
She told Kezia and me all about it--you will be amused at my saying she
told _me_, for of course I was only a baby and couldn't understand. But
she used to fancy I _did_ understand a little, and she got into the way
of talking to me when we were alone together especially, almost as if
she was thinking aloud. I cannot remember the time when she didn't talk
to me 'sensibly,' and perhaps that made me a little old for my age.
Granny says I used to grow quite grave when she talked seriously, and
that I would laugh and crow with pleasure when she seemed bright and
happy. And this made her try more than anything else to _be_ bright and
happy.
Dear, dear grandmamma--how very, exceedingly unselfish she was! For I
now see what a really sad life most people would have thought hers. All
her dearest ones gone; her husband, her son and her son's wife--mamma, I
mean--whom she had loved nearly, if not quite as much, as if she had
been her own daughter; and she left behind when she was getting old, to
take care of one tiny little baby girl--and to be so poor, too. I don't
think even now I quite understand her goodness, but every day I am
getting to see it more and more, even though at one time I was both
ungrateful and very silly, as you will hear before you come to the end
of this little history.
And now that I have explained as well as I can about grandmamma and
myself, and how and why we came to live in the funny little gray stone
cottage perched up among the Middlemoor Hills, I will go on with what I
can remember myself; for up till now, you see, all I have written has
been what was told to me by other people, especially of course by
granny.