CHAPTER II
'MUFFINS, FOR ONE THING, I HOPE'
The first thing we had to do was really to 'fire away.' That is to say,to light a fire, for of course nothing in the way of washing up orcleaning can be done without hot water, and you cannot get hot waterwithout fire of some kind. But that part of our work we did not dislikeat all. We had grown quite clever at making fires and getting them toburn up quickly in the little stove, and we had always, or nearlyalways, a nice store of beautifully dry wood that we picked upourselves. And though the hut was so near the sea, it was wonderfullydry. We could leave things there for weeks, without their becoming mustyor mouldy.
And as the fire crackled up brightly, and after a bit we got the kettleon and it began to sing, our spirits began to rise again a little, tokeep it company.
'After all,' I said, 'there really is a good strong _likelihood_ thatthings won't turn out so badly. Papa is very clever, and once he is outthere himself, he will find out everything, and perhaps get them putstraight once for all. It wouldn't so much matter our having less moneythan we have had till now, if all the muddle and cheating was clearedup.'
'No, it wouldn't,' Geordie agreed, 'and of course it's best to behopeful. So long as there's no talk of our selling Eastercove, Ida, Idon't feel as if I minded anything.'
'And the great thing is to cheer up poor mamma while papa's away,' Isaid, 'and not to seem dull or miserable at having to live differentlyand go without things we've always been used to have. I don't think Ishall mind that part of it so _very_ much, Dods--shall you?'
Dods sighed.
'I don't know; I hope not for myself--of course what matters to _me_ isthe perhaps not going to a big school. But you have cheered me up aboutthat, Ida. I shall hate you and mamma not having a carriage and niceservants and all that, though we must go on hoping it will only be for abit.'
'And I _do_ hope we can stay on near here,' I said, 'so that at least wecan feel that home is close-to. I would rather have ever so little ahouse at Kirke than a much better one farther off--except that, well, Imust say I shouldn't like it to be one of those dreadfullystuffy-looking little ones in rows in a street!'
'I'm afraid that's just what it is likely to be,' said Dods. 'It will bepretty horrid; there's no use trying to pretend it won't be. But, Ida,we're not working at all. We must get on, for papa and mamma will liketo find us at home when they come in.'
'Especially as to-morrow's Sunday,' I added; 'and very likely, if it'sas fine as to-day, we may all come down here to tea in the afternoon,'for that was a favourite habit of ours. We children used to considerthat we were the hosts on these occasions, and papa and mamma ourvisitors.
So we set to work with a will, without grumbling at the rather bigcollection of things there were to wash up, and the amount of sweepingand brushing to do. To begin with, we knew we had ourselves to thank forit, as we had left things in a very untidy way the last day we had spentat the hut. Then too, even though only an hour or so had passed since wehad heard the bad news, I think we had suddenly grown older. I havenever felt thoroughly a child again since that morning. For the firsttime it seemed to come really home to me that life has a serious side toit, and I think--indeed I know--that George felt the same. I don't meanthat we were made sad or unhappy, for I don't count that we had everbeen very thoughtless children, but we both began to feel that therewere certain things we could do, and should do, that no one else coulddo as well.
I think it must be what people call the sense of 'responsibility,' andin some ways it is rather a nice feeling. It makes one feel stronger andbraver, and yet more humble too, though that sounds contradictory, forthere comes with it a great anxiety to prove worthy of the trust placedin one to do one's best.
And just now it was very specially a case of being trusted. Papa said hewould go away happier, or at least less unhappy, for knowing that heleft two 'big' children to take care of mamma, and though I cannot quiteexplain how, the feeling left by his words had begun to influence usalready. We even were extra anxious to do our tidying very well andquickly, as we knew it would please mamma to see we were keeping thepromises we had made when she first persuaded papa to let us have thehut for our own, and got it all made nice for us.
And by four o'clock or so it did look very nice--I never saw it neater,and we felt we might rest for a few minutes.
We had put everything ready for Sunday afternoon's tea-party--everythingthat could be ready, I mean. The cups and saucers and fat brown tea-potwere arranged on the round table of the room we counted our parlour; itwas in front of the kitchen, looking towards the sea, and here we didthe unmessy part of the photographing, and kept any little ornaments orpictures we had. Of the other two rooms one was the 'chemical room,' aswe called it, and in a cupboard out of it we hung up ourbathing-clothes, and the _fourth_ room, which had originally been thefront bathing-house, so to say, or dressing-room, was now a bedroom, allexcept the bed. That does sound very 'Irish,' does it not? But what Imean is that it was furnished simply as a bedroom usually is--only thatthere was no bed.
We had often begged to be allowed to spend a night in the hut, for therewas an old sofa that Geordie could have slept on quite comfortably inthe parlour, or even in the kitchen, and we had saved pocket-moneyenough to buy a camp bedstead, for which mamma had two or threemattresses and pillows and things like that among the spare ones up inthe long garret. But so far we had never got leave to carry ourpicnicking quite so far. Papa would not have minded, for of all thingshe wanted us to be 'plucky,' and did not even object to my beingsomething of a tomboy; but mamma said she would certainly not sleep allnight if she knew we were alone in the hut, and perhaps frightened, orill, or something wrong with us.
So _that_ plan had been put a stop to.
'I wonder what Hoskins will give us in the shape of cakes forto-morrow,' I said. 'There is enough tea and sugar for two or three moreafternoons'--'more than we shall want,' I added to myself with an insidesigh.
Hoskins was a sort of half-nurse, half-housekeeper person. She had notbeen with us _very_ long, only since Esme was born--but she really wasvery good and dear, and I know she cared for us in a particular way, forher father had been gardener for ages, though ages ago now, as sheherself was pretty old, at Eastercove. And she wasn't cross, like somany old servants both in books and real life--rather the otherway--too "spoiling" of us. She had only one fault. She was a littledeaf.
'Muffins, for one thing, I hope,' said Dods. 'They don't leave offmaking them till May, and it isn't May yet.'
There was a baker in the village--I think I have forgotten to say thatthere was a very tiny village called Eastercove, close to our gates--whowas famed for his muffins.
'Humph,' I said. 'I don't very much care about them. They are such abother with toasting and buttering. I think bread and butter--thin androlled--is quite as good, and some nice cakes and a big one of that kindof gingerbread that you hardly taste the ginger in, and that's liketoffee at the top.'
I was beginning to feel hungry, for we had not eaten much luncheon,which was our early dinner, and I think that made me talk rathergreedily.
'You are a regular epicure about cakes,' said Dods.
I did not like his calling me that, and I felt my face get red, and Iwas just going to answer him crossly when I remembered about our greattrouble, and thought immediately to myself how silly it would be tosquabble about tiny things in a babyish way now. So I answered quietly--
'Well, you see, it is only polite to think of what other people like, ifyou invite them to tea, and I know papa likes that kind of gingerbread.He ate such a big piece one day that mamma called him a greedy boy.'
Geordie did not say anything, but I always know when he is sorry forteasing me, and I could see that he was just now.
Then we locked up and set off home again. As we came out of the pinewoods and in sight of the drive we saw the pony carriage, and we ran on,so as to be at the front door when papa and mamma got there.
They smiled at us very kindly,
and papa said in what he meant to be acheery voice--
'Well, young people, what have you been about? Run in, Ida, and hurry uptea. Mamma is tired.'
Yes, poor mamma did look dreadfully tired, and through the outsidecheeriness of papa's words and manner I could see that he was feelingvery sad and dull.
I hurried in, and we were soon all at tea in the pretty drawing-room.George and I did not always have tea downstairs, but to-day somehowthere seemed no question of our not doing so. I waited till mamma hadhad some tea and was looking a little less white and done up, and then Isaid half-frightenedly--
'Did you see any nice little house at Kirke?' though in my heart I feltsure they hadn't, or they would not have come back, looking sodisappointed.
Mamma shook her head.
'I am afraid, dearie,' she began, but papa interrupted her--
'No,' he said decidedly, 'we saw nothing the least possible to call"nice," except one or two places far and away too dear. And of course weknew already that there are plenty of nice houses to be got, if expensehad not to be considered so closely. There is no good beating about thebush with George and Ida,' he went on, turning to mamma. 'Now that wehave so thoroughly taken them into our confidence it is best to tellthem everything. And the truth is,' he continued, leaning back in hischair with a rather rueful smile, 'I am really feeling almost indespair. I am afraid we shall have to give up the idea of staying atKirke.'
'Yet there are so many advantages about it,' said mamma quickly. 'Andthere is, after all, that tiny house in the Western Road.'
'Horrid poky little hole,' said papa. 'I cannot bear to think of you init. I would almost rather you went about in a caravan like the gypsieswe passed on the road.'
'Yes,' I agreed, '_I_ wouldn't mind that at all--not in summer, atleast.'
'Ah, but unluckily, my dear child, "it is not always May,"' he replied,though I was pleased to see he held out his cup for some more tea (Ihave found out that things do seem much worse when one is tired orhungry!) and that his voice sounded more like itself.
'And it isn't always winter either,' said mamma cheerfully. 'Let us beas happy as we can while we are together, and enjoy this nice springweather. I _am_ glad, if sad things had to happen, that they did notcome to us in November or December. Perhaps Mr. Lloyd will find somenicer house for us.'
'Does he know about--about our having to leave Eastercove?' I asked.
Mamma nodded.
'Yes,' she replied. 'We stopped there on our way back, and papa went inand told him.'
I felt glad of that. It would prepare him for Dods's anxiety about ascholarship.
'By the bye,' mamma continued, 'how fast they are getting on with thenew parish room! I was looking at it while I was waiting for you, Jack'(that's papa), 'and it seems really finished. Are they not beginning totake away the iron room already?'
'Lloyd says it is to be sold here, or returned to the makers for whatthey will give, next week,' papa replied. 'It has served its purposevery well indeed these two or three years. If----'
'If what?' said mamma.
Poor papa shrugged his shoulders.
'Oh, it's no good thinking of it now,' he answered. 'I was only going tosay--forgetting--that if Geordie and Ida liked I might buy it and add iton to the hut. It would make into two capital little bedrooms for verylittle cost, and Lloyd happened to say to-day that the makers wouldrather sell it for less where it stands than have the expense of takingit back to London. They keep improving these things; it is probablyconsidered old-fashioned already.'
Geordie and I looked at each other. How lovely it would have been! Justwhat we had always longed for--to be allowed really to _live_ at thehut now and then. And with two more rooms we could have had Hoskinswith us, and then mamma wouldn't have been nervous about it. But as papasaid, there was no use in thinking about it _now_.
'Will the people who are coming to live here have the hut too?' I asked.
Papa did not seem to pay much attention to what I said. He was thinkingdeeply, and almost started as I turned to him with the question.
'I do not know,' he replied. 'It has not been alluded to.'
'I hope not,' said mamma. 'If we stay at Kirke, as I still trust we may,it would be nice to come up there to spend an afternoon now and then. Itis so far from the house that we would not seem like intruders. Though,of course, once they see how nice it is, they may want to have it as abathing-box.'
'That's not very likely,' said papa. 'They seem elderly people, and theson is a great sufferer from rheumatism. That is why they have takensuch a fancy to this place--the scent of pine woods and the air aboutthem are considered so good for illnesses of that kind. And sea-airsuits him too, and they think it a wonderful chance to have all this aswell as a dry climate and fairly mild winters. Yes--we who live here_are_ uncommonly lucky.'
He strolled to the window as he spoke and stood looking out withoutspeaking. Then he turned again.
'I'll remember about the hut,' he said. 'I don't fancy these good peoplewould be likely to be fussy or ill-natured or to think you intruding.Their letters are so well-bred and considerate.'
We felt glad to hear that.
'Mamma,' I said, 'we have made the hut so nice and tidy forto-morrow--Sunday, you know. You and papa will come and have tea there,won't you? It will be the first time this year' (and 'the last perhaps'seemed whispered into my mind, though I did not utter the words), forthe spring-coming had been uncertain and we had all had colds.
Mamma looked at papa.
'Yes,' he said; 'certainly we will. And the little ones too, Ida?'
'Of course,' I said, and then I went off to talk about cakes--andmuffins if possible, to please Dods--to Hoskins, the result of theinterview proving very satisfactory.
When I came back to the drawing-room the little ones werethere--Denzil, solemn as usual; Esme hopping and skipping about andchattering thirteen to the dozen, as usual, too! She is three or fouryears older now, and beginning to 'sober down,' as they say, so I hopeif she ever reads this, which certainly will not be for three or four ormore years from now, she will have gone on sobering down, enough tounderstand what a 'flibbertigibbet' (that is a word of Hoskins's which Ithink very expressive) she was, and not to be hurt at my description ofher. For I do love her dearly, and I always have loved her dearly, and Ishould be sorry for her ever to lose her good spirits, though it isalready a comfort that she _sometimes_ sits still now, and listens towhat is said to her.
All the same, that part of our lives which I am writing this storyabout, would have been much duller and harder but for our butterfly'sfunny, merry ways.
This afternoon she was especially laughing and mischievous, and it mademe feel a little cross. I was tired, I daresay, with all the work we hadbeen doing, _and_ the sadness that had come upon us so suddenly, and Idid want to be quiet and talk sensibly. It was a little papa's faulttoo, I must say. He is sometimes rather like a boy still, though he hasfour big children. He hates being unhappy! I don't think he would mindmy saying so of him, and he got mischievous and teased Esme, to make hersay funny things, as she often does.
And I suppose I looked rather too grave, for, after a little, mammawhispered to me--
'Ida, dear, don't look so dreadfully unhappy; you almost make me wish wehad not told you anything till we were obliged to do so.'
'I don't look worse than Geordie,' I replied, in a whisper too,'or--or,' as I happened just then to catch sight of my younger brother'sface, 'than Denzil.'
At this mamma did burst out laughing--a real merry laugh, which, inspite of my crossness, I was pleased to hear.
'My dear!' she exclaimed, 'who has ever seen Denzil anything but solemn!And as he knows nothing, it has certainly not to do with what _we_ areall thinking about. He was the solemnest _baby_ even that ever was seen,though many babies are solemn. I used to feel quite ashamed of myfrivolity when Denny was only a couple of months old. And--no, poor oldGeordie is trying to cheer up, so you must too.'
Yes, it was true. Geordi
e was laughing and playing with Esme and papa,though I know his heart was quite as heavy as mine. Geordie is veryparticularly good in some ways. So I resolved to choke down, or at leastto hide, my sadness--and still more the sort of crossness I had beenfeeling. It was not exactly real ill-tempered crossness, but the kind ofhating being unhappy and thinking that other people are unhappy too,which comes with troubles when one isn't used to them especially, andisn't patient and unselfish, though one wants to be.
However, I managed to look more amiable after mamma's littlewarning--still more, I think, after her hearty laugh. Her laughingalways seems to drive away crossness and gloominess; it is so pretty andbright, and so real.
And I was helped too by another thing, though as yet it had scarcelytaken shape in my mind, or even in my fancy. But it was there all thesame, fluttering about somewhere, as if waiting for me to catch hold ofit and make something of it. Just yet I did not give myself time tothink it out. All I felt was a sort of presentiment that somewhere orsomehow there was a way out of our troubles, or rather out of one partof them, and that I was going to find it before long. And I am quitesure that sometimes the thinking a thing out is more than half done byour brains before we know it--much in the same way that we--Dods andI--are quite sure that putting a lesson-book under your pillow at nighthelps you to know what you have to learn out of it by the next morning.Lots of children believe this, though none of us can explain it, and wedon't like to speak of it for fear of being laughed at. But I don't mindwriting about it, as I shall not hear if people do laugh at it or not.
Anyway it _did_ happen to me this time, that _something_ worked thecobweb ideas that were beginning to float about in my brain into a realtouchable or speakable plan, before the 'awake' side of it--of my brain,I mean--knew that anything of the kind was there.
I will try to tell quite exactly how this came about. But first I mustsay that I don't think George was feeling so _very_ bad after all, forthe last thing he said to me that evening as we went up to bed was, 'Ido hope Hoskins has managed to get some muffins for to-morrow.'