CHAPTER XI.
Thelast day came,—the last hour. Sunny, her mamma, and her Lizzie, had to turn their ways homeward,—a long, long journey of several hundred miles. To begin it at four in the morning, with a child, too, was decided as impracticable; so it was arranged that they should leave overnight, and sleep at the only available place, an inn which English superiority scornfully termed a “public-house,” but which here in the Highlands was called the “hotel,” where “gentlemen could be accommodated with excellent shooting quarters.” Therefore, it was supposed to be able to accommodate a lady and a child,—for one night, at least.
Fortunately, the shooting gentlemen did not avail themselves of it; for the hotel contained only two guest-rooms. These being engaged, and the exact time of the boat next morning learned,—which was not so easy, as everybody in the neighbourhood gave different advice and a different opinion,—the departure was settled.
Lovelier than ever looked the hills and the loch when the carriage came around to the door. All the little boys crowded around it, with vociferous farewell,—which they evidently thought great fun,—Sunny likewise.
“Good-bye! good-bye!” cried she, as cheerfully as if it had been “how d’ye do,” and obstinately refused to be kissed by anybody. Indeed, this little girl does not like kisses, unless she offers them of her own accord.
One only grief she had, but that was a sharp one. Maurice’s papa, who had her in his arms, suddenly proposed that they should “send mamma away and keep Sunny;” and the scream of agony she gave, and the frantic way she clung to her mamma, and would not look at anybody for fear of being kept prisoner, was quite pathetic.
At last the good-byes were over. For Little Sunshine these are as yet meaningless; life to her is a series of delights,—the new ones coming as the old ones go. The felicity of kissing her hand and driving away was soon followed by the amusement of standing on her mamma’s lap, where she could see everything along the road, which she had passed a fortnight before in dark night.
Now it was golden twilight,—such a twilight! A year or two hence Sunny would have been inecstasy at the mountains, standing range behind range, literally transfigured in light, with the young moon floating like a “silver boat” (only turned the wrong way uppermost) over their tops. As it was, the large, distant world interested her less than the small, near one,—the trees that swept her face as she drove along the narrow road, and the numerous cows and calves that fed on either side of it.
There was also a salt-water loch, with fishing-boats drawn up on the beach, and long fishing-nets hanging on poles; but not a living creature in sight, except a heron or two. These stood on one leg, solemnly, as herons do, and then flew off, flapping their large wings with a noise that made Little Sunshine, as she expressed it, “nearly jump.” Several times, indeed, she “nearly jumped” out of the carriage at the curious things she saw: such funny houses, such little windows,—“only one pane, mamma,”—and, above all, the girls and boys barefooted, shock-headed, that hung about staring at the carriage as it passed.
“Have those little children got no Lizzie to comb their hair?” she anxiously inquired; and mamma was obliged to confess that probably they had not, at which Sunny looked much surprised.
It was a long, long drive, even with all these entertainments; and before it ended, the twilighthad faded, the moon crept higher over the hill, and Sunshine asked in a whisper for “Maymie’s apron.” The little “Maymie’s apron,” which had long lain in abeyance, was produced, and she soon snuggled down in her mamma’s arms and fell fast asleep.
When she woke up the “hotel” was reached. Such a queer hotel! You entered by a low doorway, which opened into the kitchen below, and a narrow staircase leading to the guest-rooms above. From the kitchen Sunny heard a baby cry. She suddenly stopped, and would not go a step till mamma had promised she should see the baby,—a very little baby, only a week old. Then she mounted with dignity up the rickety stairs, and began to examine her new apartments.
They were only two, and as homely as they well could be. Beside the sitting-room was a tiny bedroom, with a “hole in the wall,” where Lizzie was to sleep. This “hole in the wall” immediately attracted Sunny; she jumped in it, and began crawling about it, and tried to stand upright under it, which, being such a very little person, she was just able to do. Finally, she wanted to go to sleep in it, till, hearing she was to sleep with mamma, a much grander thing, she went up to the bed, and investigated it with great interest likewise. Also the preparations for herbath, which was to be in a washing-tub in front of the parlour fire,—a peat fire. It had a delicious, aromatic smell, and it brightened up the whole room, which was very clean and tidy, after all.
So was the baby, which shortly appeared in its mother’s arms. She was a pale, delicate woman, speaking English with the slow precision of a Highlander, and having the self-composed, courteous manner that all Highlanders have. She looked much pleased when her baby was admired,—though not by Sunny, who, never having seen so young a baby before, did not much approve of it, and especially disapproved of seeing it taken into her own mamma’s arms. So presently it and its mother disappeared, and Sunny and her mamma were left to eat their supper of milk, bread and butter, and eggs; which they did with great content. Sunny was not quite so content to go to bed, but cried a little, till her mamma set the parlour door half open, that the firelight might shine in. Very soon she also crept in beside her little girl; who was then not afraid of anything.
But when they woke, in the dim dawn, it was under rather “frightening” circumstances. There was a noise below, of a most extraordinary kind, shouting, singing, dancing,—yes, evidently dancing, though at that early hour of the morning.It could not have been continued from overnight, mamma having distinctly heard all the family go to bed, the children tramping loudly up the stairs at nine o’clock, after which the inn was quite quiet. No, these must be new guests, and very noisy guests, too. They stamped, they beat with their feet, they cried “whoop!” or “hech!” or some other perfectly unspellable word, at regular intervals. Going to sleep again was impossible; especially as Sunny, unaccustomed to such a racket, began to cry, and would have fallen into a downright sobbing fit, but for the amusement of going to the “hole in the wall,” to wake her Lizzie. Upon which everybody rose, the peat fire was rekindled, and the new day began.
The good folk below stairs must have begun it rather early. They were a marriage party, who had walked over the hills several miles, to see the bride and bridegroom off by the boat.
“Sunny wants to look at them,” said the child, who listens to everything, and wants to have a finger in every pie.
So, as soon as dressed, she was taken down, and stood at the door in her mamma’s arms to see the fun.
Very curious “fun” it was. About a dozen young men and women, very respectable-looking, and wonderfully dressed, though the women hadtheir muslin skirts pretty well draggled,—not surprising, considering the miles they had trudged over mountain and bog, in the damp dawn of the morning,—were dancing with all their might and main, the lassies with their feet, the lads with feet, heads, hands, tongues, snapping their fingers and crying “hech!” or whatever it was, in the most exciting manner. It was only excitement of dancing, however; none of them seemed the least drunk. They stopped a minute, at sight of the lady and child, and then went on again, dancing most determinedly, and as solemnly as if it were to save their lives, for the next quarter of an hour.
English Lizzie, who had never seen a Highland reel before, looked on with as much astonishment as Sunny herself. That small person, elevated in her mamma’s arms, gazed on the scene without a single smile; there being no music, the dance was to her merely a noise and a scuffle. Presently she said, gravely, “Now Sunny will go away.”
They went away, and after drinking a glass of milk,—oh, what delicious milk those Highland cows give!—they soon heard the distant paddles of the boat, as she steamed in between the many islands of which this sea is full.
Then mounting an extraordinary vehicle, which in the bill was called a “carridge,” they headed a procession, consisting of the wedding party walkingsedately two and two, a young man and young woman arm in arm, down to the pier.
The married couple were put on board the boat (together with Sunny, her mamma, and her Lizzie, who all felt very small, and of no consequence whatever), then there was a great shouting and waving of handkerchiefs, and a spluttering and splattering of Gaelic good wishes, and the vessel sailed away.
By this time it was broad daylight, though no sun was visible. Indeed, the glorious sunrises seemed ended now; it was a gray, cheerless morning, and so misty that no mountains could be seen to take farewell of. The delicious Highland life was all gone by like a dream.
This homeward journey was over the same route that Sunny had travelled a fortnight before, and she went through it in much the same fashion.
She ran about the boat, and made friends with half a dozen people, for no kindly face is long a strange face to Little Sunshine. She was noticed even by the grim, weather-beaten captain (he had a lot of little people of his own, he said), only when he told her she was “a bonnie wee lassie,” she once more indignantly repelled the accusation.
“I’m not a bonnie wee lassie. I’m Sunny, mamma’s little Sunny,” repeated she, and would not look at him for at least two minutes.
She bore the various changes from sea-boat to canal-boat, etc., with her usual equanimity. At one place there was a great crush, and they got so squeezed up in a crowd that her mamma did not like it at all, but Sunny was perfectly composed, mamma’s arms being considered protection against anything. And when the nine locks came, she cheerfully disembarked, and walked along the towing-path for half a mile in the bravest manner. Gradually, as amusement began to fail her, she found several playfellows on board, a little dog tied by a string, and a pussy-cat shut up in a hamper, which formed part of the luggage of an unfortunate gentleman travelling to London with five daughters, six servants, and about fifty boxes,—for he was overheard counting them. In the long, weary transit between the canal-boat and the sea, Sunny followed this imprisoned cat, which mewed piteously; and in its sorrows she forgot her own.
But she was growing very tired, poor child! and the sunshine, which always has a curious effect upon her temper and spirits, had now altogether disappeared. A white, dull, chill mist hung over the water, fortunately not thick enough to stop traffic, as had happened two days before, but still enough to make the river very dreary.
Little Sunshine, too, went under a cloud; she turned naughty, and insisted on doing whatevershe was bid not to do; climbing in the most dangerous places, leaning over the boat’s side to look at the waves: misbehaviour which required a strong hand and watchful eyes to prevent serious consequences. But mamma was more sorry than angry, for it was hard for the little woman; and she was especially touched when, being obliged to forbid some stale, unwholesome fruit and doubtful “sweeties,” over which Sunny lingered and longed, by saying “they belonged to the captain,” the child answered, sweetly:
“But if the kind captain were to give Sunny some, then she might have them?”
The kind captain not appearing, alas! she passed the basket with a sigh, and went down to the engines. To see the gigantic machinery turning and turning, never frightened, but only delighted her. And mamma was so thankful to find anything to break the tedium of the fourteen hours’ journey, that though her little girl went down to the engine-room neat and clean in a white pelisse, and came up again looking just like a little sweep, she did not mind it at all!
Daylight faded; the boat emptied gradually of its passengers, including the gentleman with the large family and the fifty boxes; and on deck it began to grow very cold. Sunny had made excursions down below for breakfast, dinner, andtea, at all of which meals she conducted herself with the utmost propriety, but now she took up her quarters permanently in the comfortable saloon.
Not to sleep, alack! though her mamma settled down in a corner, and would have given anything for “just one little minute,” as Sunny says, of quiet slumber, but the child was now preternaturally wide awake, and as lively as a cricket. So was a little boy, named Willie, with whom she had made friends, and was on such terms of intimacy that they sat on the floor and shared their food together, and then jumped about, playing at all sorts of games, and screaming with laughter, so that even the few tired passengers who remained in the boat, as she steamed up the narrow, foggy river, could not help laughing too.
This went on for the space of two hours more, and even then Sunny, who was quite good now, was with difficulty caught and dressed, in preparation for the stopping of the boat, when she was promised she should see papa. But she will endure any martyrdom of bonnet-tying or boot-buttoning if only she thinks she is going to meet her papa.
Unluckily there had been some mistake as to hours, and when she was carried on deck, in the sudden darkness, broken only by the glimmer ofthe line of lights along the wharf, and plunged into the midst of a dreadful confusion,—porters leaping on board and screaming to passengers, and passengers searching wildly for their luggage,—no papa was there. To double her grief, she also lost her mamma, who of course had to see to things at once herself. Through the noise and whirl she heard the voice of the child, “Mamma! mamma!” It was a cry not merely of distress,—but agony, with a “grown-up” tone in it of actual despair. No doubt the careless jest of Maurice’s papa had rankled in her little mind, and she thought mamma was torn from her in real truth, and for ever.
When at last mamma came back, the grasp with which the poor little girl clung to her neck was absolutely frantic.
“Mamma went away and left Sunny,—Sunny lost mamma,” and mamma could feel the little frame shaking with terror and anguish. Poor lamb! there was nothing to be done but to take her and hold her tight, and stagger with her somehow across the gangway to the cab. But even there she never loosened her clasp for a minute till she got safe into a bright, warm house, where she found her own papa. Then the little woman was content.
She had still another journey before her, andwithout her papa too. A night journey, which promised to be easy and comfortable, but turned out quite the contrary. A journey in which Sunny’s powers of endurance were taxed to the utmost, so that it will be years before she forgets the wind-up of her holiday.
Her papa put his family safe in a carriage all to themselves, and under special charge of the guard. Then he left them, just settling down to sleep; Sunny being disposed of in a snug corner, with an air-cushion for a pillow, and furry shawls wrapped about her, almost as cosy as in her own little crib, in which, after her various changes and vicissitudes, she was soon to repose once more.
She fell asleep in five minutes, and her mamma, who was very tired, soon dozed also, until roused by a sharp cry of fright. There was the poor little girl, lying at the bottom of the carriage, having been thrown there by its violent rocking. It rocked still, and rocked for many, many miles, in the most dreadful manner. When it stopped the guard was appealed to, who said it was “the coupling-chains too slack,” and promised to put all right. So the travellers went to sleep again, this time Sunny in her mamma’s arms, which she refused to quit.
Again more jolting, and another catastrophe; mamma and the child finding themselves lyingboth together on the floor. This time Sunny was much frightened, and screamed violently, repulsing even her mamma.
“I thought you were not my own mamma; I thought you were somebody else,” said she, afterward, and it was a long time before she came to her right self and cuddled down; the oscillation of the carriage continuing so bad that it was as much as her mamma could do, by wrapping her own arms around her, to protect the poor child from being hurt and bruised.
The guard, again appealed to, declared there was no danger, and that he would find a more comfortable carriage at the next stopping-place: but in vain. It was a full train, and the only two seats vacant were in a carriage full of gentlemen, who might object to a poor, sleepy, crying child. The little party went hopelessly back.
“Perhaps those gentlemen might talk so loud they might waken Sunny,” said the child, sagely, evidently remembering her experiences of five weeks ago. At any rate, nobody wished to try the experiment.
Since there was no actual danger, the only remedy was endurance. Mamma settled herself as firmly as she could, making a cradle of her arms. There, at length, the poor child, who had long ceased crying, and only gave an occasionalweary moan, fell into a doze, which ended in quiet sleep. She was very heavy, and the hours seemed very long, but still they slipped away somehow. Nothing is absolutely unbearable when one feels that, being inevitable, it must be borne.
Of course nobody slept, except the child, until near daybreak, when a new and more benevolent guard came to the rescue, had the coupling-chains fastened (which, they found, had never been done at all till now), and lessened the shaking of the carriage. Then tired Lizzie dropped asleep too, and the gray morning dawned upon a silent carriage, sweeping rapidly across the level English country, so different from that left behind. No more lochs, no more mountains. No more sunshine either, as it appeared; for there was no sign of sunrise, and the day broke amidst pelting rain, which kept drip, drip, upon the top of the carriage, till it seemed as if a deluge would soon be added to the troubles of the journey.
But these were not so bad now. Very soon the little girl woke up, neither frightened nor cross, but the same sunshiny child as ever.
“Mamma!” she said, and smiled her own beaming smile, and sat up and looked about her. “It’s daylight. Sunny wants to get up.”
That getting up was a most amusing affair. It lasted as long as mamma’s ingenuity could possiblymake it last, without any assistance from poor, worn-out Lizzie, who was left to sleep her fill. First, Sunny’s face and hands had to be washed with a damp sponge, and wiped with mamma’s pocket-handkerchief. Then her hair was combed and brushed, with a brush that had a looking-glass on the back of it; in which she contemplated herself from time to time, laughing with exceeding merriment. Lastly, there was breakfast to be got ready and eaten.
A most original breakfast! Beginning with a large pear, out of a basketful which a kind old gentleman had made up as a special present to Sunny; then some ham sandwiches,—from which the ham was carefully extracted; then a good drink of milk. To uncork the bottle in which this milk had been carried, and pour it into the horn cup without spilling, required an amount of skill and care which occupied both mamma and Sunny for ever so long. In fact, they spent over their dressing and breakfasting nearly an hour; and by this time they were both in the best of spirits, and benignly compassionate to Lizzie, who slept on, and wanted no breakfast.
And when the sun at last came out, a watery and rather melancholy orb, not at all like the sun of the Highlands, the child was as bright and merry as if she had not travelled at all, andplayed about in the railway-carriage just as if it were her own nursery.
This was well, for several weary hours had still to be passed; the train was far behind its time; and what poor mamma would have done without the unfailing good temper of her “sunshiny child,” she could not tell. When London was reached, and the benevolent guard once more put his head into the carriage, with “Here we are at last. I should think you’d had enough of it, ma’am,” even he could not help giving a smile to the “little Missy” who was so merry and so good.
In London was an hour or two more of weary delay; but it was under a kindly roof, and Sunny had a second beautiful breakfast, all proper, with tea-cups and a table-cloth; which she did not seem to find half so amusing as the irregular one in the railway-carriage. But she was very happy, and continued happy, telling all her adventures in Scotland to a dear old Scotchwoman whom she loves exceedingly, and who loves her back again. And being happy, she remained perfectly good, until once more put into a “puff-puff,” to be landed at her own safe home.
Home. Even the child understood the joy of going home. She began talking of “Sunny’s nursery;” “Sunny’s white pussy;” “Sunny’s little dog Rose;” and recalling all the servants byname, showing she forgot nothing and nobody, though she had been absent so long. She chattered all the way down, till some ladies who were in the carriage could hardly believe she had been travelling all night. And when the train stopped, she was the first to look out of the window and call out, “There’s godmamma!”
So it was! Sunny’s own, kind godmamma, come unexpectedly to meet her and her tired mamma at the station; and oh, they were both so glad!
“Glad” was a small word to express the perfect and entire felicity of getting home,—of finding the house looked just as usual; that the servants’ cheerful faces beamed welcome; that even the doggie Rose barked, and white pussy purred, as if both were glad Little Sunshine was back again. She marched up-stairs, lifting her short legs deliberately one after the other, and refusing to be carried; then ran into her nursery just as if she had left it only yesterday. And she “allowed” her mamma to have dinner with her there, sitting at table, as grand as if she were giving a dinner-party; and chattering like a little magpie to the very end of the meal. But after that she collapsed. So did her mamma. So did her Lizzie. They were all so dreadfully tired that human nature could endure no more. Though it was stillbroad daylight, and with all the delights of home around them, they went to bed, and slept straight on,—mamma “all around the clock,” and the child and her Lizzie for fourteen hours!
Thus ended Little Sunshine’s Holiday. It is told just as it happened, to amuse other little people, who no doubt are as fond as she is of hearing “stories.” Only this is not a story, but the real truth. Not the whole truth, of course, for that would be breaking in upon what grown-up people term “the sanctities of private life.” But there is no single word in it which isnottrue. I hope you will like it, little people, simple as it is. And so, good-bye!
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