The House That Grew

  CHAPTER IX

  'THE KIND SEA, TOO, AUNTIE DEAR'

  We _did_ get everything unpacked that night, but only in arough-and-ready way. We should have liked to go on till midnight orlater even, working by moonlight, for it was full moon and very clearweather just then, but this mamma would not hear of.

  And Hoskins in her sensible way pointed out how much more nicely andneatly we could finish it all by daylight with the straw and packingcloths all tidied away, which she would 'see to' first thing in themorning.

  She and mamma had already arranged for Taisy to sleep in my room thatnight, by Esme's sleeping with mamma, and by taking out the end ofEsme's cot, to make it longer--long enough after a fashion, for _me_.

  How we laughed, Taisy and I, though any other girl would have beentired after all she had done, and the tiresomely slow drive fromWetherford! Mamma was obliged to knock on the--wall, I was going tosay--but of course it was not a wall, only a wooden partition, to tellus to be quiet. I never knew any one with such spirits as Taisy--notonly high spirits, but _nice_ ones, for she was never boisterous, andshe knew in a moment if you were not inclined for laughing or joking,though her fun was always there, ready to bubble up again at the rightmoment. She was full of sympathy too, in spite of her cheerfulness; noone could possibly have called her heartless.

  Looking back, I can see what a _very_ good thing it was for us all thatshe came, even for mamma. We were in danger just then of being too muchtaken up with our own little life--the life of the Hut--which is onekind of selfishness.

  And dear mamma in her _un_selfishness might have got too silent aboutall she was feeling; she was so afraid of making us young onesmelancholy. But I have seen her sitting or standing, when she thought wedid not notice, gazing at the sea--gazing, gazing, as if she couldscarcely bear it and yet must look at it. The cruel sea, which had takendear papa so far away! On fine, sunny days I almost think somehow itseemed worse. I know that feeling about the sea myself, as if it _were_cruel really, below its loveliness and brilliance. And I am sure shesaid something of this to Taisy, the very day after Taisy came, for Iheard _her_ say, though her eyes were full of tears--

  'The _kind_ sea, too, auntie dear, which will bring him back again.'

  And as for us children, it was just delightful past words to haveTheresa. We had been very happy at the Hut already, very busy andinterested, but the _fun_ of the life there came with Taisy. She wasfull of it, though the things we found so amusing are too trifling, evenif they would not seem really silly, to write down.

  The arranging of her 'house,' as she would call it, was the nicest partof all the arranging we had had to do. We pulled it close up to one sideof one of our doors--the 'parish room' doors you understand, where therewere no windows, so that the waggon was, so to say, protected by one ofthe iron walls--I don't know what else to call it, and which also gavethe advantage of a tap in the night arousing us at once, _in case_Taisy felt frightened, which she never did. But the tapping was veryconvenient all the same, as she could awaken me in the mornings whenthey got warm enough for very early bathing, without 'disturbing thewhole house,' as Hoskins said. And I could tap to her, last thing atnight, to wish her good-night.

  You never saw a cosier place than we made of it; that first day after itwas all arranged, we _couldn't_ leave off admiring it.

  There was Taisy's bed along one side, rather a narrow one of course,though not worse than a berth at sea, and looking so bright with thelovely scarlet blankets Lady Emmeline had given her. And in one corner alittle frame which held a ewer and basin, and in the other some hooksfor hanging things with a red curtain that drew round, and short redcurtains to the windows, and a _tiny_ chest of drawers; it was reallyone end of an old writing-table, or _secretaire_, to hold gloves andpocket-handkerchiefs and belts and small things like that. Then underthe bed there was a long low trunk, what is called a cabin portmanteau,I believe, which held Taisy's best dresses, of which she had certainlynot brought many, and hooks higher up than the hanging ones, for herhats. You wouldn't believe, unless you have ever been a long voyage--I_have_, since those days--all that was got into the old omnibus, byplanning and ingenuity.

  Taisy was as proud of it as if she had made or built, I suppose oneshould say, the whole carriage; indeed, I think we all were, once we hadgot everything perfectly arranged. Mamma carried off some of her _most_crushable things, as she said she had really some spare room in her owncupboards or wardrobes; and I took her best hat, as it had lovely whitefeathers, which it would have been a thousand pities to spoil, and whichthere was plenty of space for in the big box where Esme's and mine were.And then Taisy declared she felt her house quite spacious.

  Lady Emmeline had sent several things for us, some especially for mammaherself, which I was particularly glad of, as dear mamma, never thinkingof herself and anxious to leave the big house as pretty as usual, hadleft behind some little things that I am sure she missed. And old AuntEmmeline and Taisy seemed to have guessed by magic what these were.

  'How nice!' I exclaimed, when Taisy had got them unpacked. 'This screenis just like the one you have in the boudoir at home, and cushions--I_know_ you will be glad of some cushions, mamma, though you wouldn'tbring any with you.'

  'And a _couvre-pied_,' added Taisy; 'Granny was sure you hadn't gotenough "wraps." Nothing will persuade her that it is not always as coldas winter down here.'

  'It is most kind of her,' said mamma; 'and I really am very, verypleased to have these things. And--did you know, Ida?--Aunt Emmeline hasalso sent us two hampers full of all manner of good things toeat--chickens and a turkey, and a ham and pickled tongues, and I don'tknow all what.'

  'Yes,' said Taisy; 'nothing will persuade her either that you arenot----' She stopped suddenly and got rather red.

  'I know,' said mamma, laughing, 'that we are not in danger of starvationas well as of cold. You need not mind, Taisy dear--as if _anything_could offend us that you said or that Aunt Emmeline thought. And ofcourse it is true that we are anxious to spend as little as we can,while things are so uncertain.'

  'And then we can't cure hams or pickle tongues like at home,' I added.

  So all the kind old lady's gifts were very welcome. I think Hoskins wasmore pleased with the eatables than with anything.

  Things had been nice before, but after Taisy came, we really did enjoyourselves. She was always planning something amusing or interesting, andmamma declared she had never heard me or Geordie laugh so much in herlife. It was very good for Geordie to be 'routed out' a little, as Taisysaid. He was inclined to be too serious and anxious, and to overwork, atthis time, because of the scholarship, and as I had put it into hishead, I was doubly glad of being helped to keep him bright and merry,as I know he worked all the better for it. He was _really_anxious-minded--not like Denzil, who never laughed and was as solemn asan owl, not because _he_ was anxious, but just because he was too fatand comfortable to worry--poor old Den!--he really _is_ sogood-tempered, I don't like laughing at him.

  It was very nice too that just about this time came the first reallylong letter from papa; up to now he had written scarcely more thanscraps. And this letter was decidedly more cheerful and hopeful.

  He had begun to go into things thoroughly, he said, and had got verygood friends to help him, and he was beginning to think that, at worst,it would not turn out _too_ awfully bad. And for this mamma felt verygrateful, though she had so bravely prepared for whatever might be tocome.

  So for a few weeks we went on very contentedly, more than that,indeed--very brightly too. It was, for me, too delightful not to havemuch governessing to do, for Taisy at once took the most of this onherself. And I assure you, she _did_ keep Miss Esme in order.

  In return for this she joined me in some of my reading with mamma, andshe always has said that she learnt more in this way about some lessonsthan she had ever done before. Mamma is very clever.

  We went on, as I said, pretty steadily like this for some weeks tillanother rather big thing happened--almost as b
ig as the 'descent of theballoon,' which we always called Theresa's arrival.

  But before telling about this new event, I must relate a curious thingthat happened one day.

  It was one afternoon--just after tea--we were still sitting out of doorswhere we had had tea--mamma in her 'boudoir,' for the days were gettingquite long, and we were specially glad to be in the open air as much aspossible, for we had had a good deal of rain for nearly a week--mammawas reading, and I think I was too--when Hoskins came out of the houselooking rather 'funny'--queer, I mean, as if not quite sure if she werevexed or not.

  'If you please, ma'am,' she said, 'there's a gypsy at the back door, andI can't get her to go till she's seen you.'

  'A gypsy,' mamma exclaimed in great surprise; 'how has she managed toget inside the grounds? And I did not know there were any in theneighbourhood just now. It is so seldom they come this way too. Taisy,'she went on, looking round, 'you might speak to her for me and ask whatshe wants.'

  But Taisy was not there.

  'Miss Theresa has gone into the woods, I think,' said Hoskins; 'I heardher calling to Miss Esme just after tea-time.'

  Mamma and I had not noticed the others going; our books must have beeninteresting, and time passes quickly in such a case.

  'How did the gypsy get through the lodge gates?' mamma repeated.

  'That's what I asked her first thing,' Hoskins answered; 'but she didnot answer very distinctly. She says she has come a good bit out of herway to see you--there are not any camping about near here. She has aboy with her--perhaps she wants something for him--quite a littlefellow. She's a pleasant, civil-spoken woman--indeed, gypsies generallyare if they want to get something out of you.'

  'Like most people, I am afraid,' said mamma, smiling as she reluctantlyprepared to move. 'Perhaps I had better speak to her; it would not do tohave her lurking about all night. They are queer people--I should notlike to rouse any ill-feeling in a gypsy.'

  'Mayn't I come with you, mamma?' I said. 'I have never spoken to a realgypsy.'

  Mamma looked at me rather doubtfully.

  'Oh yes,' she said; 'but I don't want her to tell your fortune oranything of that kind, Ida, so do not encourage her if she begins aboutit.'

  We made our way through the Hut, followed by Hoskins, to the door at theback, where, as she had said, the strange visitor was standing--Margery,who was washing up (I never saw Margery _not_ washing up, by the bye),was also keeping an eye on the woman, though I could see by the movementof her shoulders that she was giggling.

  Mamma went forward.

  'What do you want to see me for?' she said gently but rather coldly.

  The woman lifted her face--she was not quite as tall as mamma, andlooked at her closely, but not rudely. She was older than I had somehowexpected. Her skin was very brown, her hair jet-black, her eyes not_quite_ as dark as one imagines a gypsy's must be; I thought to myselfthat perhaps the very tanned complexion made them seem lighter. She waswrinkled and weather-beaten, but not by any means ugly, though notbeautiful, except her teeth, which were extremely white and even.

  'Yes, my lady,' she said, 'I did want to see you. I have come far to doso.'

  Her accent was peculiar, her voice low, and she talked slowly, almost asif using a foreign language.

  'How did you get through the gates?' mamma asked.

  The answer was a shake of the head.

  'I have not passed through them--not to-day,' she said. 'There areways--when one is in earnest.'

  'I hope you have not broken through the hedges, or over the walls,' saidmamma, rather uneasily.

  Another shake of the head.

  'No, no--have no fear; I have done no harm,' was the reply, and somehowmamma seemed as if she did not like to say any more about it.

  'But what do you want to see me for?' she repeated. 'Has it anything todo with the boy? Is he your son, or your grandson?' and she glanced atthe little fellow beside the gypsy. A very little fellow he was--darktoo, very dark-skinned and grave and rather frightened-looking. He stoodthere with his eyes cast down, a shock of black hair tumbling over hisforehead, so that it was difficult to distinguish the upper part of hisface.

  Mamma looked at him curiously--afterwards she told me she felt sorry forhim, and wondered if the woman was good to him. She--the woman--glancedat him and said something rather sharply in a queer-sounding language,on which the little fellow gave a sort of tug to his cap, though withoutactually taking it off--meant, of course, for politeness. But he neverspoke the whole time they were there.

  'No, my lady,' the woman replied, turning again to mamma,--'no, I haveno favour to ask for the child. He is not my son--nor my grandson,' andhere she smiled, showing her white teeth; 'I am not quite old enough forthat, though I may look it. I wanted to see you for a reason of myown--to do you no harm, you may be sure. And one day you will know thereason. But now,' and she held out her hand, 'you will let me tell yourlines? Not much, nor far--I would not ask it. Just a little, and mostlyof the past.'

  Mamma shook her head.

  'Then the young lady's?' said the gypsy, looking at me. Mamma shook herhead still more decidedly.

  'No, no,' she said; 'I would rather you told mine than hers. Such thingsmake young people fanciful.'

  'Then your own, my lady,' said the woman, and again she held out herhand persuasively,--'just a little.'

  I drew nearer.

  'Do, mamma,' I whispered; 'she may be offended if you don't.'

  Mamma laughed, and held out her right hand.

  'Cross it with silver,' said the woman, simply but gravely, as if shewere issuing a command. I had my purse in my pocket, and drew it out.

  'Give her a shilling,' said mamma. I did so.

  Then the gypsy bent over mamma's hand, studying it closely and murmuringto herself.

  'The other too,' she then said, without looking up.

  Mamma gave it.

  'Yes,' said the gypsy, almost as if speaking to herself,--'yes--you havecome through some dangers--water was the worst, but that was long ago.Now water has robbed you of your dearest, but only for a time. It willrestore what it has carried away. And you will be happy. You have abrave heart. Strange things have happened of late to you. You have withyou an unexpected visitor. And you are going to have another unexpectedvisit--a shorter one. Show kindness to your guest; it is always well todo so, though you may not care to receive a stranger. And----'

  'No,' said mamma,--'no, my good woman. I really don't want to hear anymore. It is getting late, and you say you have come far and this littlefellow will be tired. You had better go,'--she drew away her hand as shespoke, though quite gently.

  'Very well, my lady,' said the woman, without persisting further; 'and Ithank you for your courtesy.'

  'Shall I send some one to see you through the lodge gates?' said mamma;but the woman shook her head.

  'There is no need,' she said. 'I shall not pass that way,' and shewalked off quietly.

  Hoskins came forward and stood beside us.

  'I declare,' she said, 'she is going by the shore! What a round to getto the high road!'

  'Perhaps she is going to meet a boat,' I said. For there were littlecoves farther on, from where boats were easily launched, and whence anhour or so's rowing would bring them to a small fishing village calledBrigsea.

  'Very likely,' said mamma; 'that is a good idea and explains themystery. But she was a queer woman all the same,' and mamma seemed atiny bit upset.

  'She only told you good things, though,' I said. 'I do wonder how sheknew about your escape from a great danger by water, long ago.'

  'Yes,' said mamma. 'It is very strange how they know things.'

  'And about our unexpected visitor,' I went on; 'that meant Taisy, ofcourse. But I wonder who the new one coming can be?'

  'Oh, nobody, I daresay,' said mamma. 'Visitors and letters coming areone of their stock prophecies. Still she did not strike me as quite acommonplace gypsy. I wish Taisy had been here to see her too. Where canthey all be, I wonder?' br />
  We were not kept uncertain very long. We heard a whoop, followed by theappearance of the two boys, who told us that Taisy and Esme were comingdirectly.

  'We've all been in the wood,' said Geordie.

  'I wish you had been here,' I said. 'There's been a gypsy at the backdoor,' and I went on to tell him of our strange visitor and what she hadsaid.

  Geordie whistled.

  'I should have liked to talk to her,' he remarked. 'Did she say how shegot into the grounds?'

  I shook my head.

  'No,' I replied. 'She was very mysterious about it, but she went away inthe direction of the shore, so she prob----'

  I was interrupted by another whoop, and in a moment or two up came Taisyand Esme, looking very hot and untidy, but very eager to hear alldetails of our rather uncanny visitor, as soon as the word 'gypsy' hadcaught their ears.

  And we talked so much about her that at last mamma said we had reallybetter change the subject, or she would begin to wish she had not agreedto see the woman.

  'You will all be dreaming about her and fancying she knew much more thanshe did,' mamma added; and though she smiled and did not seem at allvexed, I somehow felt that she rather wished the gypsy had not come. Onelittle thing which she said helped to explain this.

  'I cannot get the small boy out of my mind,' it was. 'She spoke sharplyto him, and he seemed frightened. I do hope she is not unkind to him.'

  'Oh no,' I said; 'she had not an unkind face at all, though there wassomething rather--_odd_--about it, besides her being a gypsy.'

  Taisy laughed, and stroked mamma's arm.

  'I should think it _most_ unlikely she is unkind to the child,' shesaid, 'though he is not her son--or grandson! Dear auntie, you are tootender-hearted.'

  Just then I heard a sort of giggle from Esme, who, for a wonder, wassitting quietly with a book in a corner. I felt vexed with her.

  'Esme,' I whispered, 'it's very rude to laugh at anything Taisy says tomamma.'