CHAPTER VI
'YOU DO UNDERSTAND SO WELL, MAMMA'
I shall never forget the first morning's awaking in the Hut. Well, as Iknew it, it seemed as if I had not till then ever been there before. Ido not mean so much the actual waking; that of course is always a littleconfusing, even if only in a different _room_ from the one you are usedto, and I was particularly accustomed to my own room at Eastercove, aswe were not people who went away very much. We loved home too well forthat.
No, though I rubbed my eyes and stared about me and wondered why thewindow had changed its place, I soon remembered where I was, especiallywhen I caught sight of Esme's little bed beside mine, and of Esme's pinkcheeks and bright hair as she lay fast asleep still, looking like acomfortable doll.
I was thinking rather of the feelings I had when I was dressed--Idressed very quickly, despising any warm water in my bath for once, andmoved about very quietly, so as not to waken Esme and thereby vexHoskins the very first morning--and made my way out to the porch andstood there gazing about me.
It was not so very early after all--half-past seven by mamma's littleclock in the drawing-room, and I heard the servants working busily inthe kitchen and dining-room, though there was no sound from poor oldGeordie's corner, in spite of his overnight intentions of being up bysix!
But outside it seemed very, very early. It was so absolutely _alone_--sostrangely far from any sight or sound of common human life, except forjust one little thing--a tiny white sail, far, far away on thehorizon--a mere speck it seemed. And below where I stood,--I think Ihave said that the hut was on a sort of 'plateau,--' though at somelittle distance, came the sound of the waves, lapping in softly, for itwas a calm day, and now and then the flash of a gull as it flew past, orthe faint, peculiar cry of some other sea-bird or coast-bird nearerinland. For the spot was so quiet and seemingly isolated that ratherwild, shy birds were not afraid of visiting it, even when there was nostormy weather or signs of such out at sea.
And behind me were our dear pine woods, and the feeling of the squirrelsand the home birds all busy and happy in the coming of the spring,though any sounds from there were very vague and soft.
At first I did not know what it all reminded me of. Something out of myown experiences I knew, but I had to think for a minute or two before itcame back to my mind. And then I remembered that it was a story in aFrench book that mamma had read to us, partly in French, which Geordieand I knew fairly well, and partly translating as she read. It wascalled _Les Ailes de Courage_, by some great French author, who wroteit, I think, for his or her grandchildren, and it is almost the mostinteresting and strangest story I ever heard--about a boy who livedquite, quite alone in a cave by the seashore, and got to know all thewild creatures and their habits in the most wonderful way, so that theycame to trust him as if he was one of themselves. I cannot give anyright idea of the story; I doubt if any one could, but I wish you--if'you' ever come to exist--would all read it.
Just as I was standing there, pleased to have remembered theassociation in my mind, I felt a hand slipped gently round my neck. Itwas not one of Geordie's 'hugs,' and I looked up in surprise. It wasmamma.
'How quietly you came,' I said; 'and oh, mamma, _doesn't_ it remind youof _Les Ailes de Courage_?'
'Yes,' she replied, 'I know exactly what you mean.'
And then we stood perfectly still and silent for a moment or two, takingit all in, more and more, till a _very_ tiny sigh from mamma reminded meof something else--that dear papa was on that same great sea that wewere gazing at--perhaps standing on the deck of the steamer and thinkingof us--but _so_ far away already!
'It is chilly,' said mamma, 'and we must not begin our life here bycatching cold. We had better go in, dear. I think it is going to be alovely day, but in the meantime I hope Hoskins has given us a fire inthe dining-room.'
Yes--a nice bright little fire was crackling away merrily, a handful ortwo of the children's cones on the top. And the room looked quite cosyand tidy, as Margery had finished dusting and so on, in here, and wasnow busy at the other side.
'I will go and see how Esme is getting on,' said mamma. 'She had hadher bath before I came out, but there may be difficulties with her hair.And you might hurry up the boys, Ida, for I have promised Hoskins to bevery punctual, and breakfast will be ready by eight.'
It was a good thing I did go to hurry up the boys--they were both fastasleep! Geordie looked dreadfully ashamed when I at last managed to gethim really awake, and Denzil almost began to cry. He had planned withEsme, he said, to have a run down to the sands before breakfast, andHoskins knew and had promised them a slice of bread and butter and adrink of milk.
'Did she not wake you then?' I asked. 'She woke Esme at seven, but I wasalready up.'
Geordie could not remember if he had been awakened or not. Denzilthought Margery had come in and said something about 'seven o'clock,'but it was all mixed up with a wonderful dream that he wanted me to stayto listen to, about a balloon (he had heard us talking about Taisy'sballoon) with long cords hanging from it, like those in thegrandfather's clock in the hall 'at home,' for you to climb up and downby, as if they were rope-ladders.
'You must have gone to sleep again and dreamt it through the word"o'clock" getting into your brain,' I said, whereupon I felt as if I hadgot out of the frying-pan into the fire, for instead of telling the restof his dream, Denzil now wanted to know exactly what I meant, and whathis brain was 'like,' and how a word could get into it--was it a box inhis head, and his ears the doors, etc., etc.--Denzil had a dreadfully'inquiring mind,' in those days--till I really had to cut him short andfly.
'You will neither of you be ready for breakfast, as it is,' I said; 'andif you are not quick you will have none at all, or at least quite cold.'
I nearly ran against the coffee, which Hoskins was just carrying in, asI got to the dining-room door, which would not have been a happybeginning. But I pulled up just in time, and took in good part Hoskins'sreminder that it wouldn't do to rush about as if we were in the widepassages at home. Then she went on to tell me what it all made her thinkof, she was so glad to have remembered.
'It is just like a _ship_, Miss Ida. I have never been at sea, but Ispent a day or two once on board one of the big steamers at Southamptonthat a cousin of my mother's is stewardess of. Yes, it's that that'sbeen running in my head.'
'It can't have been a _very_ big one, then,' I said, rather pertly, I amafraid. But Hoskins did not see the joke.
'Oh, but it was, Miss Ida,' she went on, after she had placed thecoffee-pot in safety. 'The big rooms, saloons, as they call them, werereally beautiful, but the passages quite narrow, and the kitchens andpantries so small, you'd wonder they do do any washing-up in them, letalone cooking. Not an inch of space lost, you may say. And as to howthey manage in rough weather when everything's atop of the other, it'sjust wonderful, not that I've any wish to see for myself; the sea's allvery well to be beside of, but as for going _on_ it,' and Hoskins shookher head, but said no more. For mamma just then came into the room, andthe kind-hearted woman did not want to remind her who _was_ on the seaat the present moment.
We three--mamma and Esme and I--had made some way with our breakfastbefore the two lazy ones joined us, Geordie rather shy and ashamed;Denzil eager to explain the whole story of his dream, and to tease poormamma about his brain and how it was made and what it was like, till Idid wish I had not mentioned its existence to him.
I don't remember anything very particularly interesting in the courseof the first few days at the Hut, or rather perhaps, _everything_ was sointeresting that no one thing stands out very much in my memory or in mydiary. I kept a diary in those days, as I daresay you who read this havesuspected, otherwise I could not have been so exact about details,though it needs no diary to remind myself of the _feeling_ of it all, ofthe curious charm of the half gypsy life. Not that it really was nearlyas 'gypsy' as we would have liked it to be, or as we _thought_ we wouldhave liked it to be! It was really so comfortable, and we were all sople
ased with our own efforts to make it so, and their success, that bythe end of a week or ten days we began to long for some adventures.
'A storm,' said Geordie one day,--'a storm at sea. How would that do?Not a very bad one of course, and------'
'No,' I said decidedly, frowning at him to remind him about papa's beingon the sea,--'no, that wouldn't do at all. Besides, there never arestorms at this time of year. It's past the bad time. No, something morelike real gypsies camping near us, and coming to ask us to lend themthings, and telling our fortunes.'
But at this idea _mamma_ shook her head.
'No, thank you,' she said, though she smiled; 'I have no wish for anysuch neighbours. Besides, Ida, you forget that though we are living in ahut, we are still at home on our own ground, and certainly gypsies havenever been allowed to camp inside the lodge gates.'
'They never come nearer than Kirke Common now,' said George. 'They havebeen frightened of Eastercove, Barnes says, ever since papa was made amagistrate.'
'I think we must be content if we want adventures,' said mamma, 'withreading some aloud. I have got one or two nice books that none of youknow, and I think it would be a very good plan to read aloud in theevenings.'
We were not very eager about it. We liked very much to be read to, butwe were not fond of being the readers, and though mamma read aloudbeautifully, I knew it was not right to let it all fall upon her, as hervoice was not very strong.
'It isn't as if Taisy were here, to take turns with you, mamma,' I said,'as she always does.'
'After this week,' said mamma, 'you will not want any more excitement,for we must really arrange about your lessons, Ida--yours and thelittle ones. And Geordie, of course, will begin again regularly with Mr.Lloyd, now that we are settled.'
Our daily governess was given up. She was not now quite 'advanced'enough for me, and to have her for Denzil and Esme alone was veryexpensive, so it had been fixed that I was to work with mamma; and, onthe other hand, be myself teacher to the little ones for the time. Mammahad thought she would have so much less to do, with papa away, and nocalls to pay, or going out to dinners and luncheons, all of which shehad given up for the time. But it did not look very like it so far--Imean not very like her 'having more time' than at the big house, forthere were always things turning up for her to do, and then she wroteenormously long letters to papa every week. And there were things aboutthe place, the whole property, which she had to be consulted about nowhe was away.
And for my part I was not at all looking forward to my new post ofgoverness!
'It is such a pity,' I thought, 'that we can't have Taisy. She wouldn'thave minded teaching the children a bit, and she is so clever. Lots ofmy own lessons I could have done with her too. And I know the littleones won't obey me; Denzil would, but not Esme, and she will set himoff.'
I suppose my face was looking rather cloudy, for mamma went on again.
'I daresay we shall all feel a little depressed for a time, for we havehad a good deal of really tiring work as well as excitement. And theworst of over-excitement, at least for young, strong people, is, thatwhen it is over, everything seems flat, and we find ourselves wishingsomething else would happen.'
'Yes,' I said; 'that's just what I feel. You do understand so well,mamma.'
'I have a mild piece of excitement in store for you to-day orto-morrow,' mamma went on again. 'I think it is quite time that I calledon our tenants. They must be fairly settled by now.'
'I don't see that there was any settling for them to do,' I said. 'Youleft everything so beautifully neat and nice.'
Somehow I felt a little cross at the poor things!
'They have to unpack what they brought with them,' said Geordie; 'andI'm sure----' he stopped short.
I knew why he stopped. He thought that what he was going to say mightvex me, for, as I think--or hope I have owned--I have a quick temper.But Dods was not famous for 'tact'; that habit of his of stopping shortall of a sudden often made me crosser than almost anything he could_say_.
'It's very rude not to finish your sentence,' I said sharply. 'What areyou so sure about?'
'Only that you made fuss enough about our own unpacking,' he replied,'quite extra from the getting the Hut in order and all that.'
'You are very unfair, and unkind,' I said, feeling as if I should liketo cry, for _I_ thought I had been very patient and good-tempered.'Mamma, don't you think he needn't have said that?'
'He did not want to say it, to give him his due,' said mamma, smiling alittle; 'and to give Ida her due,' she went on, turning to Geordie, 'Idon't see, my boy, that you needed to _think_ it.'
'Well,' said Dods, and I felt my vexedness begin to go away, 'after all,I don't know that I did. I suppose we've all been rather fussy, thoughit wasn't in a bad sort of way.'
'No, indeed,' said mamma; 'it was in a very good sort of way. You haveall been most helpful; I wish you could have seen my last letter to papaabout you.'
After that it would have been impossible to go on being vexed with anyone, wouldn't it? I never knew any one like mamma for making horridfeelings go and nice ones come, and yet she is always quite _true_.
'Then, do you mean that you want me to go with you when you call on theTrevors, mamma?' I asked.
'Yes, I do, rather particularly,' she replied, so of course I said Iwould be ready whatever time she fixed, though I didn't very much wantto go. I was just at the age--I don't think I have quite grown past iteven now--when girls hate paying calls, and I could not bear the idea ofbeing received as visitors in our very own house. This was extremelysilly of course, as it was such a lucky thing for us to have let it togood, careful people like the Trevors, but I don't think it was anunnatural feeling. And afterwards, poor mamma owned to me that it wassomething of the same kind that had made her wish to take me with her.It would make her feel less 'lonely,' she thought. Wasn't it sweet ofher to think that?
So that afternoon, or the next, I forget which, we found ourselveswalking slowly up through the woods to the big house. I felt rather asif it must be Sunday, for it was not often, except on Sundays, that Iwas in the woods in very neat 'get up,'--proper gloves instead of roughgarden ones, and best boots, and hat, and everything like for going tochurch, or for going a drive with mamma in the victoria.
We did not expect--at least I did not--to find our new acquaintancesvery interesting. There was nobody young among them, and hearing thatthey had come to Eastercove principally for health's sake did not soundvery lively.
But, after all, something interesting _did_ come of the visit, as I willtell you.
We were ushered into the drawing-room--'the ladies were at home,' hesaid--by an oldish man-servant, with a nice face.
Into our own drawing-room--how funny it seemed! And already it did notseem quite our own, not the same. There were little changes in theplaces of the furniture, and there were unfamiliar odds and ends about,which made it feel strange. I was rather glad that there was no one inthe room to receive us, and I squeezed mamma's hand tight, and I am sureshe understood, and we both had time to get our breath, as it were,before any one appeared.
When some one did come, nevertheless, we were taken a little bysurprise, for she--it was Miss Trevor--entered by the window, and I hadbeen looking towards the door. There are long, low-down windows in thedrawing-room, and at one side a terracey sort of walk, which is verypleasant for sitting out on, in summer especially, as it is well shaded.
Immediately I saw her I felt she was nice. She seemed older than mamma,though perhaps she was not so really. Her face was very quiet--that isthe best word for it, and though I was so young then and knew so littleof life, I felt that it was a face that had _grown_ quiet throughgoodness. Even now I do not know much of Miss Trevor's history, butmamma has been told enough of it to make her think very highly of her.
There was not the least bit of hardness, scarcely even of sadness in herexpression, but just a look--a look that made one feel that she had comethrough sorrow, and could never care _very_ much about anythin
g forherself again--anything _here_, I mean.
'I am so sorry,' she said at once, in a nice, hearty way, 'to have keptyou waiting. It is such a lovely afternoon that mother and I havesettled ourselves outside!'
'Then please don't unsettle yourselves,' said mamma, and I saw a gleamof pleasure creep into Miss Trevor's gray eyes at mamma's pretty voiceand manner. 'May we not join Mrs. Trevor on the terrace, for I supposeit is there you are sitting?'
'Yes,' was the reply. 'It is so sheltered, and of course it is stillearly days for venturing anything of the kind. But mother is quitestrong except for rheumatism, and really who _could_ have rheumatism inthis dry, fragrant air? We are so delighted with everything about yourbeautiful home, Mrs. Lanark,' she went on. (It has _just_ struck me thattill now I have never said that 'Lanark' is our family name! Really, Iam not fit to try to write a story.) 'And you have done so much to makeit perfect for us.'
WE WERE OUT ON THE TERRACE, AND MRS. TREVOR COMING TOMEET US.]
Mamma and I felt repaid for our trouble by this, but before there wastime to reply, we were out on the terrace, and Mrs. Trevor coming tomeet us. It was not such an easy business for her to do so, as you mightthink. She had three dogs--darlings, I must own, and not barking,snapping darlings--dancing round her, and she was all twisted about withwool, red and green and white and all colours, unwound from the ballsfrom her knitting. You never saw anything so funny, especially as thedoggies, though very good-natured, were very lively and affectionate,and very spoilt, evidently accustomed to think the wools and theknitting and every bit of dear Mrs. Trevor herself only existed fortheir benefit. How she managed to keep the wool clean, and to knit thepretty fluffy things she did, I never found out. I really think therewas some magic about it, for I _never_ saw her without the strands of itflying loose, _and_ the dogs dancing up and down to catch it!
She was laughing--such a nice laugh.
'Really,' she said, 'you will think me a slave to my pugs, Mrs. Lanark,and I am afraid it is true. Zenia, dear, please untwist me.'
Miss Trevor was evidently pretty well used to doing so, but she laughedtoo; and mamma and I started forward to help, so between us we managedto get the wool wound up pretty quickly, the doggies standing by morequietly than usual. They were more in awe of Miss Trevor, it was plainto see, than of their actual mistress.