ONE AND SEVEN
I will go on now to the time I was about seven years old. 'Baby' stories
are interesting to people who know the baby, or the person that once was
the baby, but I scarcely think they are very interesting to people who
have never seen you or never will, or, if they do, would not know it was
you!
All these years we had gone on quietly living at Windy Gap, without ever
going away. Going away never came into my head, and if dear grandmamma
sometimes wished for a little change--and, indeed, I am sure she must
have done--she never spoke of it to me. Now and then I used to hear
other children, for there were a few families living near us, whose
little boys and girls I very occasionally played with, speak of going to
the sea-side in the summer, or to stay with uncles and aunts or other
relations in London in the winter, to see the pantomimes and the shops.
But it never struck me that anything of that sort could come in my way,
not more than it ever entered my imagination that I could become a
princess or a gipsy or anything equally impossible.
Happy children are made like that, I think, and a very good thing it is
for them. And I was a very happy child.
We had our troubles, troubles that even had she wished, grandmamma could
not have kept from me. And I do not think she did wish it. She knew that
though the _background_ of a child's life should be contented and happy,
it would not be true teaching or true living to let it believe any life
can be without troubles.
One trouble was a bad illness I had when I was six--though this was
really more of a trouble to granny and Kezia than to me. For I did not
suffer much pain. Sometimes the illnesses that frighten children's
friends the most do not hurt the little people themselves as much as
less serious things.
This illness came from a bad cold, and it _might_ have left me delicate
for always, though happily it didn't. But it made granny anxious, and
after I got better it was a long time before she could feel easy-minded
about letting me go out without being tremendously wrapped up, and
making sure which way the wind was, and a lot of things like that, which
are rather teasing.
I might not have given in as well as I did had it not happened that the
winter which came after my illness was a terribly severe one, and my own
sense--for even between six and seven children _can_ have some common
sense--told me that nothing would be easier than to get a cough again if
I didn't take care. So on the whole I was pretty good.
But those months of anxiety and the great cold were very trying for
grandmamma. Her hair got quite, _quite_ white during them.
These severe winters do not come often at Middlemoor; not very often, at
least. We had two of them during the time we lived there, 'year in and
year out,' as Kezia called it. But between them we had much milder ones,
one or two quite wonderfully mild, and others middling--nothing really
to complain of. Still, a very tiny cottage house standing by itself is
pretty cold during the best of winters, even though the walls were
thick. And in wet or stormy days one does get tired of very small rooms
and few of them.
But the year that followed that bitter winter brought a pleasant little
change into my life--the first variety of the kind that had come to me.
I made real acquaintance at last with some other children.
This was how it began.
I was seven, a little past seven, at the time.
One morning I had just finished my lessons, which of course took more
than a quarter of an hour now, and was collecting my books together, to
put them away, when I heard a knock at the front door.
I was in the drawing-room--_generally_, especially in winter, I did my
lessons in the dining-room. For we never had two fires at once, and for
that reason we sat in the dining-room in the morning if it was cold,
though granny was most particular always to have a fire in the
drawing-room in the afternoon. I think now it was quite wonderful how
she managed about things like that, never to fall into irregular or
untidy ways, for as people grow old they find it difficult to be as
active and energetic as is easy for younger ones. It was all for my
sake, and every day I feel more and more grateful to her for it.
Never once in my life do I remember going into the dining-room to dinner
without first meeting grandmamma in the drawing-room, when a glance
would show her if my face and hands had been freshly washed and my hair
brushed and my dress tidy, and upstairs again would I be sent in a
twinkling if any of these matters were amiss.
But this morning I had had my lessons in the drawing-room; to begin
with, it was not winter now, but spring, and not a cold spring either;
and in the second place, Kezia had been having a baking of pastry and
cakes in the dining-room oven, and granny knew my lessons would have
fared badly if my attention had been disturbed every time the cakes had
to be seen to.
I was collecting my books, I said, to carry them into the other room,
where there was a little shelf with a curtain in front on purpose for
them, as we only kept our nicest books in the drawing-room, when this
rat-a-tat knock came to the door.
I was very surprised. It was so seldom any one came to the front door in
the morning, and, indeed, not often in the afternoon either, and this
knock sounded sharp and important somehow. Though I was still quite a
little girl I knew it would vex grandmamma if I tried to peep out to see
who it was--it was one of the things she would have said 'no lady should
ever do'--and I could not bear her to think I ever forgot how even a
very small lady should behave.
The only thing I could do was to look out of the side window, not that I
could see the door from there, but I had a good view of the road where
it passed the short track, too rough to call a road, leading to our own
little gate.
No cart or carriage could come nearer than that point; the tradesmen
from Middlemoor always stopped there and carried up our meat or bread or
whatever it was--not very heavy basketfuls, I suspect--to the kitchen
door, and I used to be very fond of standing at this window, watching
the unpacking from the carts.
There was no cart there to-day, but what _was_ there nearly took my
breath away.
'Oh, grandmamma,' I called out, quite forgetting that by this time Kezia
must have opened the door; 'oh, grandmamma, do look at the lovely
carriage and ponies.'
Granny did not answer. She had not heard me, for she was in the
dining-room, as I might have known. But I had got into the habit of
calling to her whenever I was pleased or excited, and generally, somehow
or other, she managed to hear. And I could not leave the window, I was
so engrossed by what I saw.
There was a girl in the carriage, to me she seemed a grown-up lady. She
was sitting still, holding the reins. But I did not see the figure of
another lady which by this time had got hidden by the house, as she
followed the little groom whom she had sent on to ask if Mrs. Wingfield
was at home, meaning at first, to wait till he came back. I heard her
afterwards explaining to grandmamma that the boy was rather deaf and she
was afraid he had not heard her distinctly, so she had come herself.
And while I was still gazing at the carriage and the ponies, the
drawing-room door, already a little ajar, was pushed wide open and I
heard Kezia saying she would tell Mrs. Wingfield at once.
'Mrs. Nestor; you heard my name?' said some one in a pleasant voice.
I turned round.
There stood a tall lady in a long dark green cloak, she had a hat on,
not a bonnet, and I just thought of her as another lady, not troubling
myself as to whether she was younger or older than the one in the
carriage, though actually she was her mother.
I was not shy. It sounds contradictory to say so, but still there is
truth in it. I had seen too few people in my life to know anything about
shyness. And all I ever had had to do with were kind and friendly. And I
remembered 'my manners,' as old-fashioned folk say.
I clambered down from the window-seat, and stroked my pinafore, which
had got ruffled up, and came forward towards the lady, holding out my
hand. I had no need to go far, for she had come straight in my
direction.
'Well, dear?' she said, and again I liked her voice, though I did not
exactly think about it, 'and are you Mrs. Wingfield's little girl?'
'My name is Helena Charlotte Naomi Wingfield,' I said, very gravely and
distinctly, 'and grandmamma is Mrs. Wingfield.'
Mrs. Nestor was smiling still more by this time, but she smiled in a
nice way that did not at all give me any feeling that she was making fun
of what I said.
'And how old are you, my dear?--let me see, you have so many names!
which are you called by, or have you any short name?'
I shook my head.
'No, only "girlie," and that is just for grandmamma to say. I am always
called "Helena."'
'It is a very pretty name,' said my new friend. 'And how old are you,
Helena?'
'I am past seven,' I said. 'My birthday comes in the spring, in March.
Have you any little girls, and are any of them seven? I would like to
know some little girls as big as me.'
'I have lots,' said Mrs. Nestor. 'One of them is in the pony-carriage
outside. I daresay you can see her from the window.'
I think my face must have fallen.
'Oh,' I said, disappointedly. 'She's a lady.'
'No, indeed,' said Mrs. Nestor, now laughing outright; 'if you knew her,
or when you know her, as I hope you will soon, I'm afraid you will think
her much more of a tomboy than a lady. Sharley is only eleven, though
she is tall. Her name is Charlotte, like one of yours, but we call her
Sharley; we spell it with an "S" to prevent people calling her
"Charley," for she is boyish enough already, I am afraid. Then I have
three girls younger--nine, six, and three, and two boys of----'
I was _so_ interested--my eyes were very wide open, and I shouldn't
wonder if my mouth was too--that for once in my life I was almost sorry
to see grandmamma, who at that moment opened the door and came in.
'I hope Helena has been a good hostess?' she said, after she had shaken
hands with Mrs. Nestor, whom she had met before once or twice. 'We have
been having a cake baking this morning, and I was just giving some
directions about a special kind of gingerbread we want to try.'
'I should apologise for coming in the morning,' said Mrs. Nestor, but
grandmamma assured her it was quite right to have chosen the morning.
'Helena and I go out in the afternoon whenever the weather is fine
enough, and I should have been sorry to miss you. Now, my little girl,
you may run off to Kezia. Say good-bye to Mrs. Nestor.'
I felt very disappointed, but I was accustomed to obey at once. But Mrs.
Nestor read the disappointment in my eyes: that was one of the nice
things about her. She was so 'understanding.'
She turned to grandmamma.
'One of my daughters is in the pony-carriage,' she said. 'Would you
allow Helena to go out to her? She would be pleased to see your garden,
I am sure.'
'Certainly,' said grandmamma. 'Put on your hat and jacket, Helena, and
ask Miss'--she had caught sight of the girl from the window and saw that
she was pretty big--'Miss Nestor to walk about with you a little.'
I flew off--too excited to feel at all timid about making friends by
myself.
'Call her Sharley,' said Mrs. Nestor, as I left the room. 'She would not
know herself by any other name.'
In a minute or two I was running down the garden-path. When I found
myself fairly out at the gate, and within a few steps of the girl, I
think a feeling of shyness _did_ come over me, though I did not myself
understand what it was. I hung back a little and began to wonder what I
should say. I had so seldom spoken to a child belonging to my own rank
in life. And I had not often spoken to any of the poorer children about,
as there happened to be none in the cottages near us, and grandmamma was
perhaps a little _too_ anxious about me, too afraid of my catching any
childish illness. She says herself that she thinks she was. But of
course I am now so strong and big that it makes it rather different.
I had not much time left in which to grow shy, however. As soon as the
girl saw that I was plainly coming towards her she sprang out of the
carriage.
'Has mother sent you to fetch me?' she said.
I looked at her. Now that she was out of the carriage and standing, I
could see that she was not as tall as grandmamma, or as her own mother,
and that her frock was a good way off the ground. And her hair was
hanging down her back. Still she seemed to me almost a grown-up lady.
I am afraid her first impression of _me_ must have been that I was
extremely stupid. For I went on staring at her for a moment or two
before I answered. She was indeed opening her lips to repeat the
question when I at last found my voice.
'I don't know,' I said. And if she did not think me stupid before I
spoke, she certainly must have done so when I did.
'I don't know,' I repeated, considering over what her question exactly
meant. 'No, I don't think it was fetching you. I was to ask you--would
you like to walk round our garden? And p'raps--your mamma was going to
tell me all your names, but grandmamma told me to run away. I'd like to
know your sisters that are as little as me's names.'
I remember exactly what I said, for Sharley has often told me since how
difficult it was for her not to burst out laughing at the funny way I
spoke. But tomboy though she was in some respects, she had a very tender
heart, and like her mother she was quick at understanding. So she
answered quite soberly--
'Thank you. I should like very much to walk round your garden--though
running would be even nicer. I'm not very fond of walking if I can run,
and you have got such jolly steep paths and banks.'
I eyed the steep paths doubtfully.
'You hurt yourself a good deal if you run too fast down the paths,' I
said. 'The stones are so sharp.'
Sharley laughed.
'You speak from experience,' she said. 'That grass bank would be lovely
for tobogganing.'
'I don't know what that is,' I replied.
'We'll show you if you come to see us at home,' she said. 'But I suppose
I'd better not try anything like that to-day. You want to know my
sisters' names? They are Anna and Valetta and Baby----'
'Never mind about Baby,' I interrupted, rather abruptly, I fear. 'How
big is Anna, and--the other one?'
Sharley stood still and looked me well over.
'Do you really mean "big"?' she said, 'or "old"? Anna is nine and Val is
six; but as for bigness--Anna is nearly as tall as I am, and Val is a
good bit bigger than you.'
I felt and looked nearly ready to cry.
'And I'm past seven,' I said, 'I wish I wasn't so little. It's like
being a baby, and I don't care for babies.'
'Never mind,' replied Sharley consolingly, 'you needn't be at all
babyish because you're little. One of our boys is very little, but he's
not a bit of a baby. I'm sure Val will like to play with you, and so
will Anna--and all of us, for that matter.'
I began to think Sharley a very nice girl. I put my hand in hers
confidingly.
'I'd like to come,' I said, 'and I'd like to play that funny name down
the grass-bank here, if you'll show me how.'
'All right,' she said. 'We'll have to ask leave, I suppose. But you
haven't told me your name yet. The children are sure to ask me.'
I repeated it--or them--solemnly.
'"Charlotte"--that's my name,' Sharley remarked.
'I'm never called it,' I said. 'I'm always called Helena.'
Sharley looked rather surprised.
'Fancy!' she said. '_We_ all call each other by short names and
nicknames and all kinds of absurd names. Anna is generally Nan, and the
boys are Pert and Quick--at least those are the names that have lasted
longest. I daresay it's partly because they are just a little like their
real names--Percival and Quintin.'
'What a great many of you there are!' I said, but Sharley took my remark
in perfectly good part, even though I went on to add--'It's like the
baker's children--I counted them once, but I couldn't get them right;
sometimes they came to nine and sometimes to eleven.'
'Do you mean the baker's on the way to High Middlemoor?' said Sharley.
'Oh yes, it must be them--papa calls them the baker's dozen always. No,
we're not as many as that. We are only seven--us four girls, and Pert
and Quick, and Jerry, our big brother, who's at school. Dear me, it must
be dull to be only one!'
Just then we heard the voices of grandmamma and Sharley's mother coming
towards us. And a minute or two later the pony-carriage drove away
again, Sharley nodding back friendly farewells.