The House That Grew

  CHAPTER III

  'IT'S A WONDERFUL IDEA, IDA'

  I remember that I fell asleep very quickly that night. Of course, likemost children when they are well, I generally did. But that night itwould not have been very surprising if I had kept awake and even gotinto a tossing-about, fidgety state, just from thinking about thestrange, sudden trouble and change that were coming into our lives.

  On the contrary, I seemed to drop straight down into unconsciousnessalmost as soon as my head touched the pillow, and I must have sleptseveral hours straight off without even dreaming, or at least dreaminganything that I could remember. For when I awoke the dawn was creepingin, and though I felt too lazy and comfortable to get up to look out, Iknew that sunrise could not be far off. It was that time of earlymorning when one almost fancies that sun and moon stop a moment or twoto say a word to each other on their way, though of course I knowenough astronomy now to understand that those fancies _are_ onlyfancies. And yet there is a kind of truth in them, for the sun and moon,and the stars too, _have_ to do with all of us people living on thisearth; indeed, we owe everything to the sun; and so it is not altogetherfancy to think of him, great big kind thing that he is, as a wonderfulfriend, and of the little gentle moon as taking his place, as it were,when he is at work on the other side. And the curious, mingled sort oflight in the room, faint and dreamy, though clear too, made me think tomyself, 'The sun is saying, "How do you do?" and the moon, "Good-bye."'

  But I soon shut my drowsy eyes again, though not to fall asleep again atonce. On the contrary, I grew awaker and awaker, as I began to feel thatmy mind or memory or brain--I don't know which to call it--had somethingto tell me.

  What was it?

  I seemed almost to be listening. And gradually it came to me--theknowledge of the idea that had been working itself out during my sleepfrom the thoughts that had been there jumbled up together the daybefore. And when I got clear hold of what it was, I nearly called out,I felt so struck and startled at first, just as if some one had said itto me, though with astonishing quickness it spread itself out before meas a really possible and even sensible plan, with nothing dreamy orfanciful about it.

  It was this.

  'Why should not we all--mamma, that is to say, and we four children--whyshould we not live altogether at the hut during the year, or moreperhaps, that papa would have to be away?'

  It may seem to those who read this story--if ever there are readers ofit--a wild idea that had thus come to me. But 'the proof of the puddingis in the eating,' as Hoskins is fond of saying. So please wait a littlebefore you judge.

  And no sooner had the idea got into words than all the bits of it beganto place themselves in order like the pieces of a dissected puzzle-map,or, still better, like the many-coloured skeins of silk in the prettyfairy story where the touch of the wand made them all arrangethemselves. Still more--no sooner had the first vague thoughts settleddown than others came to join them, each finding its own corner in thebuilding that I began to see was not a castle in the air but a goodsolid piece of work.

  It would be so healthy and airy, and yet not damp; nor, with propercare, need it be very cold, even in winter. It would be near enough toKirke for Geordie to go on with his lessons with Mr. Lloyd, and for usto feel we had old friends close at hand, who would understand all aboutus, and very likely be kinder than ever. It would be near enough tohome--dear Eastercove--indeed, it would be Eastercove--for us to takelots of furniture and things from the house to furnish as much more aswas needed and to make it comfortable and even pretty, without emptyingEastercove house at all. There was, as I have said, such a lot ofstored-away extra furniture and old carpets and curtains and blanketsand all sorts of things up in the great attic, and Hoskins kept them allso nice and tidy, and without moths or mildew or horrible things likethat, that it was quite a pleasure to go up there sometimes. It was likea very neat shop for second-hand things, which is more than can be saidfor most box-rooms or lumber-rooms, I fancy.

  And the moving these things would be no expense, and there would be notravelling expenses for any of us, and--the last idea that came into myhead was the best of all. The old parish room! The iron room that Mr.Lloyd had told papa about the afternoon before! They wanted to get ridof it and would sell it for almost nothing. Even if 'almost nothing'meant--I could not guess how much or how little--a few pounds,perhaps--it would be far, far less than the rent of a house, howeversmall, and it would make into two or even three little rooms, easily.Perhaps it would be enough just to divide it by screens or curtains,perhaps----

  Oh, the 'perhapses' that came crowding into my head when I had thoughtof the old parish room! I could scarcely lie still another minute--Ifelt in such a desperate hurry to tell Geordie of the wonderful thoughtthat had come to me. But it was still far from getting-up time; I knewit would be very selfish and unkind to wake up poor old Dods in whatwould seem to him the middle of the night, for he was a very soundsleeper, and had hard enough work to get his eyes properly open by seveno'clock.

  NO--THERE WAS NOTHING FOR IT BUT TO LIE STILL.]

  No--there was nothing for it but to lie still and be as patient as Icould. It would be interesting to watch the light growing stronger andchanging; it was already doing so in a curious way, as the cold, thinmoonshine gave place to the sun, even then warmer somehow in its tonethan the fullest moon-rays ever are.

  'Yes,' I thought, 'they have met and passed each other by now, I shouldthink. I wonder--if----'

  Strange to say, I cannot finish the sentence, for I don't know _what_ Iwas going to wonder! In spite of all my eagerness and excitement I knewnothing more, till--the usual summons, in Hoskins's voice--

  'Miss Ida, my dear, it's the quarter-past. You were sleeping soundly--Icould scarcely find it in my heart to awake you. But it's Sundaymorning, and you know it doesn't do to be late--and a beautiful springmorning too as ever was seen.'

  I could scarcely believe my ears.

  'Oh, Hoskins!' I exclaimed, 'I _am_ sleepy. I was awake a good bit quiteearly, and I had no idea I had gone off again. I was _so_ awake,thinking.'

  The talking thoroughly roused me, and almost at once all the 'thinking'came back to me, so that by the time I was dressed, even though Sundaymorning dressing needed a little more care and attention than everyday's, I had got it all clear and compact and ready, as it were, forGeordie's cool inspection.

  To my great satisfaction he had had a good fit that morning of gettingup promptly and being down the first after me, instead of, as oftenhappened, the last after everybody.

  'Geordie,' I exclaimed, when I caught sight of him standing at thedining-room window, staring out--or perhaps I should say' gazing,' forstaring is an ugly word, and the garden that morning was looking soparticularly pretty--'Geordie, I am just bursting to talk to you. Is itany use beginning before papa and mamma come down, do you think?'

  Geordie looked at the clock on the mantelpiece.

  'Yes,' he said; 'we have five minutes, or ten perhaps. Is it anythingparticular?'

  'Of course it is,' I replied, 'or I wouldn't say I was bursting to tellit you. And I think and hope it is something that will please you verymuch. You are to listen well and not interrupt me and say "nonsense,"before you have taken it into your mind and thought it over.'

  I saw he already was looking interested, and I was glad of it. His facehad been so sad when he first turned at the sound of my voice, and Iwell knew why. I can almost always understand Geordie and very oftenguess what he is thinking of. He has such dear blue eyes, but they arethe kind that can look very melancholy sometimes. I do hope he willhave a happy life when he grows up--I am pretty sure he will deserve it.Even now that he has been a good long while at school--big publicschool, I mean--he is just the same to me as ever. When he comes homefor the holidays it seems as if he had never been away.

  'I won't interrupt you--or say "nonsense," if I can help it,' heanswered, with a little fun in his voice and smile coming in his eyes.

  Then I told him. I need not repeat
all I said, as I have written a lotof it already. But it must have been rather hard for Geordie not tointerrupt me. It all bubbled out so fast--all the splendid ideas andgood reasons and perhapses--one on the top of the other, so that if hehadn't been pretty well accustomed to my ways he could scarcely haveunderstood. It was quite interesting and exciting, as I went on, towatch the expression in his face--his cheeks grew pink, then crimson,and his eyes brighter and brighter. I soon saw I was not going to besnubbed.

  But real want of breath, and then the sound of mamma's skirts comingacross the hall with a pretty soft rustle--I don't think any one else'sskirts move so nicely; they seem to match her, not like that noisyflustering that is like saying, 'Here I am; I expect to be attendedto'--made me stop at last. There was only time for George to whisper--

  'It's a wonderful idea, Ida. I'll think a lot and then we'll talk aboutit, by ourselves, first, of course.'

  'We mustn't think about it in church,' I replied in the same tone; 'wemust _try_, I suppose, Dods, not to think of it in church--part of thetime, at least. I don't see that it would matter so much during thefirst lesson, and _perhaps_ one of the psalms, if they are very longones.'

  'No--o, perhaps not,' he said, and then we both ran forward to kissmamma.

  She looked at us, and I saw her face brighten when she saw that ourswere not very sad or dull. I think she had been afraid that in his wishto help _her_, papa had put too much of the burden on us two,considering how young we were then.

  'My darlings!' she said, in a rather low voice, 'my own brave boy andgirl,' and I am almost sure the tears came into her eyes. But the smilescame too.

  'What a lovely day it is going to be!' she went on, as she glanced outof the window. 'I am so glad. We must put cares aside as much as we canand try to be happy and hopeful.'

  'Yes, dear mamma,' I answered cheerfully, and with all the delightfulexciting ideas in my head, it was quite easy to be bright, as you canunderstand, 'yes, we _are_ going to have a nice day. Geordie and I'--Iglanced at him; he had not exactly said so, but I knew he would notmind,--'Geordie and I want to go down to the hut very soon afterluncheon, if you say we may, to get it all ready for you and papa andthe little ones, to come to tea.'

  'All right,' said mamma, though I saw a tiny shadow cross her face as Ispoke, and I knew she was thinking to herself that very likely it wouldbe our last Sunday afternoon tea-party for a very long time, perhaps forever, as far as the hut was concerned! But these solemn kinds of'perhapses' are always in our lives, and if we were always thinking ofthem, it would be more than our minds and hearts could bear. We shouldnot _forget_ them, but I am sure we are not meant to be gloomy aboutthem. Still, at the best, even if my grand plan was carried out, therewas plenty to be sad about, I knew. Poor papa's going so far away, firstand worst of all, and worst of course for mamma, for though we loved himdearly, she must love him, I suppose, still more.

  He came into the room just as these thoughts were flying about mybrain. I thought he looked more tired and troubled than mamma--men arenot so patient and not always so good at hiding their feelings as _some_women. At least _I_ think so!

  We two, however, were really feeling cheerful, and I think ourbrightness made it easier for mamma to be, at least, less sad than shewould otherwise have been. And I said to myself--

  'Papa will cheer up too _if_ he likes our idea, and I really can't seewhy he should not like it.'

  So breakfast got on pretty well on the whole, and as soon as it wasover, Dods and I went off for a talk. How we did talk! But first ofall--that was so like Dods--he pulled out his watch and looked whato'clock it was.

  'It's just half-past nine, Ida,' he said, 'and we must be quite ready byhalf-past ten. So let's talk till ten, no longer; it always takes youtwenty minutes or half an hour to get dressed for church, and you knowit vexes papa to be kept waiting. And to-day it's really very importantnot to vex him at all, if anything is to come of our plan.'

  'Very well,' I said; 'I promise to go in at ten.'

  Then we went to one of our favourite garden seats and set to work at ouridea. It grew and grew; we kept thinking of new bits to it, each sayingsomething which made the other think of something else, till by teno'clock we began to feel as if it were all quite settled--'cut and dry.'

  The very last thing I called out to Geordie as we ran in was about acertain old breakfast set of china we had espied in one of our visits tothe garret.

  'Yes,' I was saying, 'those willow pattern cups and things would dobeautifully. It wouldn't matter their being odd, for then mamma wouldn'tmind if some got broken. And very likely, Doddie, things _will_ getbroken, more than----'

  'What are you talking about, my dear child?' said mamma's voice, and,looking round, I saw that she was just coming out of the drawing-room onher way upstairs to get ready for church. 'You don't mean to say thatyour tea-things at the hut are all broken?'

  'Oh no, no, mamma dear,' I replied in a great hurry, and feeling myselfgrow red, though I don't think she noticed it; 'they are all right--nonebroken, and only one saucer chipped. But--I was only saying--we _might_need more some time.'

  'Ah, well!' said mamma, with a little sigh, 'not at present, at anyrate.'

  And oh how I wished I could tell her of the plan at once! But of courseit was best to wait a little.

  I shall never forget that morning at church, and how _awfully_ difficultit was to give my attention. I found myself counting up the things weshould need to make the hut comfortable, even while my voice was sayingthe responses quite correctly, and any one noticing me would very likelyhave thought I was being quite good and listening rightly. Dods, whom Iglanced at now and then, was looking very grave but not unhappy. I feltsure he was being much better than I--I mean about listening to what heheard and thinking of the words he said--though afterwards he told methat he too had found it difficult.

  'What was most bothering me,' he said, 'was about the new rooms--the oldparish room, I mean. What do you think, Ida--should it be made into adining-room and drawing-room, or----'

  'Oh no,' I interrupted, 'certainly not. The two front ones looking tothe sea must decidedly be the sitting-rooms--the one to the left of theporch, in front of the kitchen, must be the dining-room, and the bigdressing-room, the one we have always meant to be a real bedroom, mustbe the drawing-room. It is quite a nice, large room, and behind it, the'messy' room must be _yours_, Dods, which leaves the parish room to bedivided for mamma and Esme and me. Denzil can be with you--there'splenty of room.'

  'But,' said Geordie, 'you're forgetting the servants?'

  My face fell at this--I should have said that this conversation was onour way down to the hut that afternoon. We could not talk much beforethen, as we drove back from church with the others, but we set off assoon as we could after we had had dinner.

  'Yes,' I said, 'I was forgetting them altogether, and what's more,Geordie, I haven't the least idea who they are to be, or how many weshould have.'

  'We must let mamma settle that of course,' he replied. 'Hoskins will beone, anyway. Still--it's a pity we can't propose some place for them,Ida. It makes the whole plan seem rather unfinished and--childish.'

  'Like the man who built a house for himself and when it was all finishedfound he had forgotten a staircase!' I said, half laughing, but feelingrather mortified all the same.

  George did not at once reply. He was thinking. We were close to the hutby this time, and he did not say anything till we had unlocked the doorand put down our packages and looked round us.

  Everything was just exactly as we had left it the evening before, butsomehow everything seemed different!

  The truth was, I suppose, that we were looking at it all throughdifferent spectacles--yesterday it was only a kind of summer-house orplay-room--to-day it was a possible _home_. In some ways I felt as if Ihad never liked it as much; in others I began to be almost frightened atthe ideas I was so full of! But as often happened with us, George'scool, common sense put me right.

  'Yes,' he said, after he had
strolled into the other rooms and stared atthem well as if he had never seen them before,--'yes, I don't see why itshouldn't do. And, about the servants, Ida. Of course papa and mammamust _settle_ everything; but if they do take it up seriously and papabuys the iron room, I rather think it's a good deal larger than we havebeen counting it. I believe it would divide into three quite well. Theremight be a partitioned-off little room for me, and a large curtain mightdo to separate mamma from you and Esme?'

  'Yes,' I said, my spirits rising again, 'and that would leave the backroom for Hoskins and whomever else we have--_I_ should likeMargery--wouldn't you, Dods? She is such a good-natured, sturdy littlething. And----'

  'We'd better not try to settle too much,' said sensible Geordie. 'Andyou must talk quietly, Ida, so as to show we have really thought of itnot in a--oh, a babyish way, you know.'

  I felt a little ruffled at this.

  'You'd better tell them all about it yourself, then,' I said; '_I_ don'twant any of the honour and glory of it, and if there is any fear oftheir thinking us silly babies, why, then, we had better give up thewhole idea.'

  'Nonsense, Ida,' said Geordie. 'It was you who first thought of it, andI think you deserve a lot of credit for it. And I expect you'll get ittoo. I only want papa and mamma--papa especially--to hear of it at firstin the best sort of way.'

  'Yes--yes, I know!' I exclaimed, 'and you are a sensible old Dods as youalways are. And see what I have got to please you,' and I held up threelovely, fat muffins.

  We got the kitchen fire lighted and the tea-table spread in theparlour--I felt inclined to begin calling it 'the dining-room' now--andeverything nice and ready before they all came. The first announcementof them was Esme, who flew in as usual, followed very deliberately byDenzil. She gave me a hug when she saw the table.

  'Oh, what a lovely tea!' she said, 'and how delicious the hut looks. Oh,_don't_ you wish, Ida, we could live here always?'

  I glanced at Dods--we could not help smiling at each other--it seemed asort of good omen, her saying that, but we did not say anything. Thencame papa and mamma--they had walked down slowly through the wood, andas they came to the little 'plateau' where stood the hut, I saw themstop and look at it. I _wondered_ if the same idea was in their minds atall. I did not exactly want it to be, for I was rather pleased at beingthe first finder of it.