CHAPTER V.
MOLLY'S PLAN.
"... Such a plague every morning with buckling shoes, gartering, and combing."
THE TWIN RIVALS.
Soon after luncheon Miss Wren took her departure. Nothing more was saidabout Molly before her, but on leaving she patted Sylvia approvingly onthe back.
"Nice little girl," she said. "Your grandmother must bring you to see mesome day. And your sister may come, too, if she leaves her brooches athome. Young people in _my_ young days----"
Aunty saw that Sylvia was growing very red, and looking as if she wereon the point of saying something; Molly's queer behaviour had made hernervous: it would never do for Sylvia, too, to shock Miss Wren's notionof the proprieties by bursting out with some speech in Molly's defence.So aunty interrupted the old lady by some remark about her shawl notbeing thick enough for the drive, which quite distracted her attention.
As soon as she had gone, grandmother sent Sylvia upstairs to look forMolly. Sylvia came back looking rather alarmed. No Molly was there. Wherecould she be? Grandmother began to feel a little uneasy.
"She is nowhere in the house," said Sylvia. "Marcelline says she saw hergo out about half-an-hour ago. She is very fond of the little wood up theroad, grandmother: shall I go and look for her there?"
Grandmother glanced round. "Ralph," she said. "Oh, I forgot, he willnot be home till four;" for Ralph had begun going to school every day."Laura," she went on, to aunty, "put on your hat and go with Sylvia tofind the poor child."
Sylvia's face brightened at this. "Then you are not so vexed with Mollynow, grandmother," she said. "I know it seemed like mocking you, but Iam sure she didn't mean it that way."
"What did she mean, then, do you think?" said grandmother.
"I don't quite know," said Sylvia. "It was a plan of her own, but itwasn't anything naughty or rude, I am sure."
Aunty and Sylvia went off to the little wood, as the children calledit--in reality a very small plantation of young trees, where any onecould be easily perceived, especially now when the leaves were few andfar between. No, there was no Molly there. Hurriedly, aunty and Sylviaretraced their steps.
"Let us go round by the lodge," said aunty--they had left the house bythe back gate--"and see if old Marie knows anything of where she is."
As they came near to the lodge they saw old Marie coming to meet them.
"Is Mademoiselle looking for the little demoiselle?" she said with asmile. "Yes, she is in my kitchen--she has been there for half-an-hour.Poor little lady, she was in trouble, and I tried to console her. But thedear ladies have not been anxious about her? Ah yes! But how sorry I am!I knew it not, or I would have run up to tell Marcelline where she was."
"Never mind, Marie," said aunty. "If we had known she was with you, weshould have been quite satisfied. Run in, Sylvia, and tell Molly to comeback to the house to speak to your grandmother."
Sylvia was starting forward, but Marie touched her arm.
"A moment, Mademoiselle Sylvie," she said,--Sylvia liked to be called"Mademoiselle Sylvie," it sounded so pretty--"a moment. The little sisterhas fallen asleep. She was sitting by the fire, and she had been cryingso hard, poor darling. Better not wake her all at once."
She led the way into the cottage, and they followed her. There, asshe had said, was Molly, fast asleep, half lying, half sitting, by therough open fireplace, her head on a little wooden stool on which Mariehad placed a cushion, her long fair hair falling over her face andshoulders--little sobs from time to time interrupting her soft, regularbreathing.
Sylvia's eyes filled with tears.
"Poor Molly," she whispered to aunty, "she must have been crying so. Anddo you know, aunty, when Molly does cry and gets really unhappy, it isdreadful. She seems so careless, you know, but once she does care, shecares more than any one I know. And look, aunty." She pointed to a littleparcel on the floor at Molly's side. A parcel very much done up withstring, and an unnecessary amount of sealing-wax, and fastened to theparcel a little note addressed to "dear grandmother."
"Shall I run with it to grandmother?" said Sylvia: and aunty noddingpermission, off she set. She had not far to go. Coming down thegarden-path she met grandmother, anxiously looking for news of Molly.
"She's in old Marie's kitchen," said Sylvia, breathlessly, "and she'sfallen fast asleep. She'd been crying so, old Marie said. And she hadbeen writing this note for you, grandmother, and doing up this parcel."
Without speaking, grandmother broke the very splotchy-looking red sealand read the note.
"My dear, dear grandmother," it began, "Please do forgive me. I send you all my brooches. I don't _deserve_ to keep them for vexing you so. Only I didn't, oh, indeed, I didn't mean to _mock_ you, dear grandmother. It is that that I can't bear, that you should think so. It was a plan I had made to teach me to be careful, only I know it was silly--I am always thinking of silly things, but oh, _believe_ me, I would not make a joke of your teaching me to be good.--Your own dearest
"MOLLY."
"Poor little soul," said grandmother. "I wish I had not been so hastywith her. It will be a lesson to me;" and noticing that at this Sylvialooked up in surprise, she added, "Does it seem strange to you my littleSylvia, that an old woman like me should talk of having lessons? It istrue all the same--and I hope, do you know, dear?--I hope that up to thevery last of my life I shall have lessons to learn. Or rather I shouldsay that I shall be able to learn them. That the lessons are there to belearnt, always and everywhere, we can never doubt."
"But," said Sylvia, and then she hesitated.
"But what, dear?"
"I can't quite say what I mean," said Sylvia. "But it is something likethis--I thought the difference between big people and children was thatthe big people _had_ learnt their lessons, and that was why they couldhelp us with ours. I know what kind of lessons you mean--not _book_ones--but being kind and good and all things like that."
"Yes," said grandmother, "but to these lessons there is no limit. Thebetter we have learnt the early ones, the more clearly we see those stillbefore us, like climbing up mountains and seeing the peaks still risingin front. And knowing and remembering the difficulties we had long agowhen _we_ first began climbing, we can help and advise the little oneswho in their turn are at the outset of the journey. Only sometimes, as Idid with poor Molly this morning, we forget, we old people who have comesuch a long way, how hard the first climbing is, and how easily tired anddiscouraged the little tender feet get."
Grandmother gave a little sigh.
"Dear grandmother," said Sylvia, "I am sure _you_ don't forget. But thosepeople who haven't learnt when they were little, they can't teach others,grandmother, when they don't know themselves?"
"Ah, no," said grandmother. "And it is not many who have the power or thedetermination to learn to-day the lessons they neglected yesterday. Weall feel that, Sylvia, all of us. Only in another way we may get good outof that too, by warning those who have still plenty of time for all. Butlet us see if Molly is awake yet."
No, she was still fast asleep. But when grandmother stooped over her andgently raised her head, which had slipped half off the stool, Mollyopened her eyes, and gazed up at grandmother in bewilderment. For amoment or two she could not remember where she was; then it graduallycame back to her.
"Grandmother, will you forgive me?" she said. "I wrote a note, where isit?"--she looked about for it on the floor.
"I have got it, Molly," said grandmother. "Forgive you, dear? of courseI will if there is anything to forgive. But tell me now what was in yourmind, Molly? What was the 'plan'?"
"I thought," said Molly, sitting up and shaking her hair out of her eyes,"I thought, grandmother dear, that it would teach me to be careful andneat and not hurried in dressing if I wore _all_ my brooches every dayfor a good while--a month perhaps. For you know it is very difficult toput brooches in quite straight and neat, not to break the pins. It hasalways been such a trouble to me not
to stick them in, in a hurry, anyhow, and that was how I broke so many. But I'll do just as you like aboutthem. I'll leave off wearing them at all if you would rather."
She looked up in grandmother's face, her own looking so white, now thatthe flush of sleep had faded from it, and her poor eyelids so swollen,that grandmother's heart was quite touched.
"My poor little Molly," she said. "I don't think that will be necessary.I am sure you will try to be careful. But the next time you make a planfor teaching yourself any good habit, talk it over with me first, willyou, dear?"
Molly threw her arms round grandmother's neck and hugged her, and oldMarie looked quite pleased to see that all was sunshine again.
Just as they were leaving the cottage she came forward with a basketfulof lovely apples.
"They came only this morning, Madame," she said to grandmother. "Mightshe send them up to the house? The little young ladies would find themgood."
Grandmother smiled.
"Thank you, Marie," she said. "Are they _the_ apples? oh, yes, of course.I see they are. Is there a good crop this year?"
"Ah, yes, they seem always good now. The storms are past, it seems to me,Madame, both for me and my tree. But a few years now and they will beindeed all over for me. 'Tis to-morrow my fete day, Madame; that was whythey sent the apples. They are very good to remember the old woman--mygrand-nephews--I shall to-morrow be seventy-five, Madame."
"Seventy-five!" repeated grandmother. "Ah, well, Marie, I am not so veryfar behind you, though it seems as if I were growing younger lately--doesit not?--with my little girls and my boy beside me. You must come up tosee us to-morrow that we may give you our good wishes. Thank you for thebeautiful apples. Some day you must tell the children the history of yourapple-tree, Marie."
Marie's old face got quite red with pleasure. "Ah, but Madame is tookind," she said. "A stupid old woman like me to be asked to tell herlittle stories--but we shall see--some day, perhaps. So that theapples taste good, old Marie will be pleased indeed."
"What is the story of Marie's apple-tree, grandmother?" said Sylvia, asthey walked back to the house.
"She must tell you herself," said grandmother. "She will be coming upto-morrow morning to see us, as it is her birthday, and you must ask herabout it. Poor old Marie."
"Has she been a long time with you, grandmother dear?" said Molly.
"Twelve or thirteen years, soon after we first came here. She was ingreat trouble then, poor thing; but she will tell you all about it. Sheis getting old, you see, and old people are always fond of talking, theysay--like your poor old grandmother--eh, Molly?"
"_Grandmother_," said Molly, flying at her and hugging her, for by thistime they were in the drawing-room again, and Molly's spirits had quiterevived.
The apples turned out very good indeed. Even Ralph, who, since he hadbeen in France, had grown so exceedingly "John Bull," that he couldhardly be persuaded to praise anything not English, condescended tocommend them.
"No wonder they're good," said Molly, as she handed him his second one,"they're _fairy_ apples I'm sure," and she nodded her head mysteriously.
"Fairy rubbish," said Ralph, taking a good bite of the apple's rosycheek.
"Well, they're something like that, any way," persisted Molly."Grandmother said so."
"_I_ said so! My dear! I think your ears have deceived you."
"Well, grandmother dear, I know you didn't exactly say so, but what yousaid made me think so," explained Molly.
"Not quite the same thing," said grandmother. "You shall hear to-morrowall there is to tell--a very simple little story. How did you get on atschool, to-day, Ralph?"
"Oh, right enough," said Ralph. "Some of the fellows are nice enough. Butsome of them are awful cads. There's one--he's about thirteen, a year orso younger than I--his name's Prosper something or other--I actually methim out of school in the street, carrying a bundle of wood! A boy thatsits next me in the class!" he added, with considerable disgust.
"Is he a poor boy?" asked Sylvia.
"No--at least not what you'd call a poor boy. None of them are that. Buthe got precious red, I can tell you, when he saw me--just like a cad."
"Is he a naughty boy? Does he not do his lessons well?" askedgrandmother.
"Oh I daresay he does; he is not an ill-natured fellow. It was only solike a cad to go carrying wood about like that," said Ralph.
"Ralph," said grandmother suddenly. "You never saw your uncle Jack, ofcourse; has your father ever told you about him?"
Ralph's face lighted up. "Uncle Jack who was killed in the Crimea?" hesaid, lowering his voice a little. "Yes, papa has told me how brave hewas."
"Brave, and gentle, and good," said grandmother, softly. "Some day,Ralph, I will read you a little adventure of his. He wrote it out toplease me not long before his death. I meant to have sent it to one ofthe magazines for boys, but somehow I have never done so."
"What is it about, grandmother? What is it called?" asked the childrenall together, Molly adding, ecstatically clasping her hands. "If you tellus stories, grandmother, it'll be _perfect_."
"What is the little story about?" repeated grandmother. "I can hardlytell you what it is about, without telling the whole. The _name_ ofit--the name your uncle gave to it, was 'That Cad Sawyer.'"
Ralph said nothing, but somehow he had a consciousness that grandmotherdid not agree with him that carrying a bundle of wood through the streetsproved that "a fellow" must certainly be a cad.