"But Mr. Laurence doesn't mind you coming here, does he, Miss?" I asked.
"Me? Why, of course not. I am his grandchild," said she. "Of course I may do what I like in his house. He is the dearest old Grandpapa, isn't he? And he likes you ever so much, I know, because he told me he did. He said you were such a trustworthy boy."
I was glad to hear this, even though I knew pretty well already what Mr. Laurence thought.
"And I made him give me his museum-key before he went out, so that I might come here after my tea," she went on. "It's such fun—nurse can't come after me when I'm in the museum, because nobody must come in without Grandpapa's leave. She can only rap at the door, and call. Now you are going to tell me about all these things;" and she waved her hand toward the cases. "I want to know about every single thing."
"I'm afraid I can't tell you much, Miss, because I have only begun to learn," I said.
"Well, then, you can tell me the beginning, just as far as you have learnt," said she. "Come, what is this big round stone? Look how it is marked."
"That's an ammonite," I said, glad to know the first thing she asked.
"An am-mo-nite?" said she. "Yes; go on," and she nodded her head.
So I told her what little I was able, how the ammonite had once been a living sea-creature, swimming about in the ocean; and how it had somehow died out, so that no ammonite was ever found now alive; and how the only ones ever seen were these fossil ammonites, which had lived so very, very long ago, that their remains were turned to stone. I showed her some tiny little ammonites, beside the big one she had noticed first.
For the best part of an hour she kept me busy, either answering questions or saying I couldn't answer them. Sometimes she would murmur, "How clever you are!" and quite as often it was, "What! don't you know that!" So I was in no danger of being made conceited.
All went smoothly enough so far, and the little lady was as sweet and pleasant as she could be; but by-and-by we came to a small glass case, which had Indian curiosities in it, and she stooped over to look at them.
"Oh, what are those funny things?" she cried. "Look! are they stones? What do you call them? 'Catseyes!' Not real eyes of real cats?"
"It's a sort of precious stone," I told her. "They are worth a lot, I believe."
"I like those catseyes better than anything else in the whole museum," said she. "And I mean to make Grandpapa give me one of them. It would make a lovely little brooch, you know. Oh, what a bother! The case is locked. Where is the key?"
"It isn't meant to be opened, Miss," I said.
"Have you got a key?" said she.
I was glad to be able to say "No," for Mr. Laurence kept the keys himself of the smaller cases; but the next moment she gave a little scream, and lifted up the glass lid. And I saw that the lock had just failed to catch. Mr. Laurence must have turned the key in a hurry, not noticing that the lid wasn't quite closed, and so he had really locked it open. Miss Adela's hand grasped the biggest catseye in a moment; and I knew I had no easy task before me. For it wasn't difficult to see, with all her sweetness, that she was a good deal spoilt, and used to getting her own way.
"We mustn't touch anything inside," I said. "Mr. Laurence wouldn't like it. Put that back, please, Miss."
She opened her eyes wide, and looked at me in astonishment.
"You don't think you've got to tell me what to do!" said she, with a grand air.
"I'm in charge, Miss," I said; "and I can't have the things meddled with."
"I'm going to keep this dear little catseye till Grandpapa comes in, and then I shall make him give it to me," said she.
"If he gives it you, that's all right," I said; "but till he does, it's got to stay here in my charge."
She gave a funny little toss to her head, and said, "Don't you wish you may get it?"
"You wouldn't want to get me into disgrace, would you, Miss?" said I, thinking I'd try persuasion.
"Oh no!" said she; "I shall just tell Grandpapa you couldn't help it."
I knew very well that would do no good. Mr. Laurence would say I ought to have helped it.
"I'm going to show it to Nurse now," said she; and she walked towards the door; but I was there before her, and I had my hand on the key.
"No, Miss; I daren't let it leave the room," said I.
"But you'll have to; because I'm going, and I mean to take it with me," said she.
"No, Miss," I said.
"But I will!" said she.
For all answer I locked the door, and put the key in my pocket; and didn't Miss Adela's blue eyes give a flash!
"You're a naughty impertinent boy," said she; "and I shall tell my grandfather how you behave."
I half thought she would have cried and struggled to get the key; but she didn't. She held up her head like a little queen, and turned her back upon me.
"I'll open the door in a minute, if you'll just give me that catseye," said I.
"No!" said she. "I'm going to keep it."
I thought I'd make one more try. "Miss Adela," I said, for I knew her name already, "you told me a nice story just now about the soldier and the duke. If I let you take away that catseye, shouldn't I be like the soldier disobeying his orders, and letting the duke go in?"
"Well, and I think he ought to have let the duke go in," said she. "He was a rude impertinent soldier to keep the duke out; and if I was the duke, I would be very angry. I think it's a stupid story, and I don't know why I told it to you."
Then she pulled my chair round, with its back to where I was; and she seated herself on it, with her pretty arms folded, and the catseye clasped tight in one little hand.
OF course I could have got the catseye from Miss Adela by force, but I knew my place better than to try anything of that sort. The only way before me was to keep the door locked till somebody should come after her.
It seemed a long while before anybody came. I suppose the servants knew that Miss Adela was in the museum, and thought she would be all right with me; and time passed slowly for I couldn't be busy. Miss Adela had my chair, and my table with the lamp on it; and she wouldn't speak any more. So she sat there, and I stood near the door. I was just thinking that I'd try again to reason with her, and to get back the catseye, when I saw her head give a little nod, and one arm slip down over the other. That made me keep silence; for if she fell asleep, I might get the catseye from her without her knowing.
Well, she straightened herself once or twice, as if she didn't mean to be overcome by sleep; but gradually her head dropped over on one side, and the little hand was opening slowly. So I came softly and stood close by; and when it opened wider still, and the catseye dropped out, I caught it on my palm without a sound, and she slept on.
Then I crept to the door, and unlocked it gently; and next I put back the catseye into its right place, and stood over the unlocked case to keep guard.
It wasn't five minutes, I suppose, before she woke. She looked round, and gave a gape and a little laugh; and all at once she exclaimed, "Oh, it's gone! Oh, where's my dear little catseye?"
"I've got it here, all right, Miss," I said.
"You've got it!" said she, flaming up. "What business have you with my catseye? Give it back to me directly."
She stamped her foot as she spoke, and ran to where I stood. Of course I was prepared; and when she tried with her little hands to lift the glass lid, she couldn't stir it. One hand of mine on the frame was more than enough for all her strength.
"I can't let you, Miss," I said. "Only just wait till Mr. Laurence comes, and then you can ask him anything you like. I must take care of it till then."
Miss Adela went as white as a sheet with passion: for she had a hasty temper, and she hadn't learnt to govern herself, as even a child ought to learn before eight years old. She stood quite still for a moment, looking at me; and then without any warning, she dashed her right hand through the glass, breaking it into bits, and seized the catseye.
I don't know what I said, I was so startled; or whether I said anything; but the next instant I saw that her hand was badly cut, for blood came streaming from it.
"O Miss Adela! how could you? And you've hurt yourself so!"
"I don't care! I've got it!" said she proudly.
That very moment the door opened, and Mr. Laurence walked in, followed by Mr. Bertram; and didn't they both call out! I expected Miss Adela to break out into accusations of me; and I thought I should surely be blamed. But she didn't say a word at first, not even to answer their questions. She seemed to have paid away her anger, and not to be in a hurry to defend herself. Mr. Laurence sat down and took her on his knee, and Mr. Bertram pitied the poor little hand, and together they looked to see if any glass was sticking there. Then they tied it up in Mr. Laurence's big silk pocket-handkerchief, seeming satisfied that she wasn't so badly hurt as might have been; and Mr. Laurence said—
"How did it happen, Adela?"
She gave a great sigh, and didn't speak, but put her head down on his shoulder.
"Come, Addie; how was it?" said Mr. Bertram, giving her a kiss. "You poor little mite, did you tumble with your hand against the glass?"
"I think you'd better ask the museum-boy," said she; "and please put this away." She held out the other hand with the catseye.
"My dear, how do you come to have that?" asked Mr. Laurence. "I thought the case was locked."
"It wasn't properly locked," said she, in a shaky voice. "Ask the museum-boy, please."
But I came a step forward, and said I'd ever so much rather Miss Adela should tell.
Miss Adela burst into tears, and said she couldn't—her hand hurt her so much; and indeed the silk handkerchief was showing red even then. So Nurse was sent for in a hurry, and Mrs. Crane came too, and the hand was bathed and seen after, and bound up afresh; and Miss Adela looked very pale and pitiful. Then Nurse asked how it had happened, and Mr. Laurence said gravely, "We don't know yet."
"Some mischief of that boy," I heard Crane mutter. "I told you, Nurse, she oughtn't to be left alone with him so long."
"Miles, have you been to blame?" Mr. Laurence asked; and I saw he was worried.
"No, sir; I don't think so," I said. "I tried to do for the best."
"He's sure to say that," Mrs. Crane put in. "If he wasn't to blame, how ever could the poor little lamb get hurt like this?"
And then, to my surprise, Miss Adela herself spoke up bravely.
"The museum-boy isn't to blame," she said. "He's a brave boy, and he's like that soldier in the story, and I was naughty, and I wanted the catseye, and so he locked the door; and when I was asleep he got it away from me. And then I was angry, and I put my hand through the glass to get it again. And that's how I'm hurt, and it's every bit my fault."
"I know who is brave now," I heard Mr. Bertram whisper; and Mr. Laurence put his arms tightly round the child, and called her "his little darling."
"But I was naughty, because I was in a temper," said she; "and I meant to ask for that catseye, Grandpapa; and now I won't."
Mr. Laurence smiled at the idea. "No, my dear; something else,—not the catseye," he said. "But you are a good child to tell me exactly what has happened, and not to let Miles be blamed unjustly."
"Oh, I couldn't do that, of course," she said, holding up her head. "It would be so horrid, you know. And of course I knew he was right, though I did tell him he was impertinent,—didn't I, museum-boy?"
"My dear, call him 'Miles,'" said Mr. Laurence.
"Why,—he is a museum-boy, isn't he?" said she wilfully. "O Grandpapa! do let me go into your study with you now, and you can tell me stories. And Bertie must come too. And I don't want Nurse any more till bed-time,—or Mrs. Crane."
And then, to my surprise, as she went by she gave me a smile, and said, "I'm sorry I was naughty."
Well, she might be a little spoilt; but anyway she was sweet. I didn't wonder when I saw how fond Mr. Bertram was of her, after that.
LITTLE Miss Adela stayed nearly a month, and I never had any more trouble with her. She was as good as gold always; and she used to come into the museum, and stay there by the hour, and not touch a thing without leave. I grew almost to be as fond of her as Mr. Bertram himself was: and to see her face peeping round the door was like having a gleam of sunshine.
"Museum-boy," said she on the last day before she was to go away; and nothing could cure her of calling me that, or make her give me my proper name; "Museum-boy, what do you think we're going to do this afternoon, directly the minute after lunch?"
I said I couldn't guess. Was it something nice?
"'Course it is! I shouldn't tell you if it wasn't, you stupid boy!" said she, as sharp as a needle; and then she sighed. "Oh, dear me! Nurse says I oughtn't ever to call anybody stupid, and it is so hard. But you're nice all the same, you know."
"I'm glad you think so, Miss Adela," said I. "And what are you going to do after lunch?"
"Why, it isn't only me; it's you too, and it's such fun! Grandpapa is going to lend the cart to Mrs. Crane and Nurse, for us to drive to the town, and buy heaps of things. And Grandpapa asked who else I'd like to have go, and I said I wanted the museum-boy. And he laughed, and didn't mind. So you've got to go; and you must be quite neat, please, because Mrs. Crane is going to take us to tea with a cousin of hers."
"I don't know if Mrs. Crane will want to have me, Miss Adele," I said; and she gave me one of her astonished looks.
"Why,—I want you," she said. "And Grandpapa says you're to go. 'Course Mrs. Crane will like it."
I could not feel quite so sure as to that; but after all I only had to do as I was told. An hour later I had my orders from Mr. Laurence himself. "You are to go in to St. Ermes this afternoon with Miss Adela, starting at two o'clock;" and then he told me to buy a few things for him, and explained carefully what he wanted, putting five shillings into my hand. St. Ermes was a biggish town, several miles away; and the cart was a funny little concern, not so much used by Mr. Laurence himself, as he preferred the high dog-cart, but often lent to Mrs. Crane, if she had shopping to do in St. Ermes.
I was ready punctually at two, waiting outside the front door; and Mrs. Crane came to the step, wearing her very best bonnet, and not looking specially pleased. "Where's that boy?" I heard her say. "Well, if he's late I shan't wait for him! Such nonsense! As if you and me wasn't enough."
"Miss Adela always gets her own way with her Grandpapa," I heard Nurse's voice answer, close behind Mrs. Crane.
"And with everybody else. Well, I'm not going to take a great awkward boy to my cousin's, I can tell him. He'll have to manage for himself. Oh, there he is!" she said, but I felt pretty sure she had seen me sooner, and meant me to hear what went before.
I didn't care to show that I had heard, though I made up my mind that I would manage for myself, even if managing meant going without tea. Miss Adela came running up to me, full of fun and brightness. "There's a good museum-boy!" she cried. "They said you would be late, but I knew you wouldn't. Now you've got to sit behind, I suppose, 'cause Mrs. Crane likes to drive. I think a boy ought to drive."
Mrs. Crane took no notice of this, but helped Miss Adela in, and seated herself with dignity. It was a sort of governess-cart, with room for two on either side, the couples facing one another, and all going sideways—so the driving had to be an awkward sideways affair; but the last pony had been such a slow-coach, he never would go beyond a walk, and the new pony, only just bought, seemed slower still. Mrs. Crane sat holding the reins, opposite Miss Adela; and Nurse was beside Miss Adela, opposite me; so I was beside Mrs. Crane, who kept turning her back upon me, as she twisted round to drive.
After all, the new pony went better than the old one used, and we got to St. Ermes in a shorter time than commonly. A good part of an hour was spent in driving about there from shop to shop, buying different things. Mrs. Crane was due at her cousin's, I found, about four o'clock, and we were to start for home at a quarter to five. It was a mildish day, and we had lots of wraps in the cart; so Nurse did not mind Miss Adela being out a little after dark, for once.
I made up my mind to do Mr. Laurence's shopping while the rest were having their tea; and though Miss Adela talked as if I were sure to go with them, making Mrs. Crane purse up her lips, I paid no attention, but just settled my own plans. Mrs. Crane's cousin was the wife of a riding-master, and the pony would be looked after in his stables, but I thought I would offer to drive him there.
The house was a white one, in the middle of a row of white houses, all exactly alike; and when we drove up a boy stood lounging on the pavement. "That's Alick," pronounced Miss Adela. "It's Mrs. Crane's cousin's son, isn't it, Mrs. Crane? Look, museum-boy! And he always takes the pony. Doesn't he, Mrs. Crane?"
I believe Mrs. Crane had meant to use me as I had meant to be used, for she looked rather disconcerted. "There was no need for him to be here," she said. "Miles could just as well have taken the pony to the stables."
"Of course I could," I said. "I'd better go now, to see where they are, and then I shall know another time."
"But then you'll be late for tea," said Miss Adela. "Oh, no,—I know what! I'll show you where the stables are, after tea."
"You'll do nothing of the sort, Miss Adela," exclaimed Nurse. "The idea—!"
"Why, it's only round the corner," said Miss Adela.
"The idea—" repeated Nurse, and she seemed as if she could get no farther.
By that time I was out, and they all got down, Miss Adela seizing my hand. "Come, you're to come in," she said. "Mrs. Crane's cousin makes such lovely cakes, and I know you're most awfully hungry. I am."
Well, I won't say driving in that fresh air hadn't given me an appetite, but all the same I shook my head. "No, Miss Adela, I've got business to see to for Mr. Laurence," I said. "I'll be back in time to start."
"But I want you," said she wilfully.
Then she saw Nurse's face, and Mrs. Crane's; and, child as she was, she understood in a moment. She flushed up red, and stamped her foot.
"I shall tell my Grandpapa!" she said; and she turned and marched into the house, just as if she'd been a little queen. I saw Mrs. Crane look at Nurse, and Nurse look at Mrs. Crane; and then I got away as fast as I could.
It took a good part of the time choosing the things that Mr. Laurence wanted, and I had fourpence over in my purse, out of the five shillings. Miss Adela's talking of being hungry had made me feel hungry enough, if I hadn't been so before, and I was sorely tempted to get a penny bun for myself. But I wouldn't, for the money did not belong to me; and though I knew well enough Mr. Laurence would have given leave if I could have asked it, yet I could not ask, and I had not leave, and so I had no right to spend what was not mine. Of my own I hadn't a penny, for all my weekly wages were handed straight over to my mother, and if I had a need I told her, and she bought, when she could, what I needed.
I took good care not to be outside the house till close upon the time for starting; indeed the pony carriage and I got there at the very same moment, and then the little rough servant-girl came out with a big breakfast cup of tea, and a thick slice of bread-and-butter. "The young lady wouldn't rest without you had something," she said. "I was to ask if you'd like to take it out here or indoors."
I thanked her, but I wouldn't go indoors; and I did feel glad I hadn't spent one penny of the money I had in my pocket on myself; so that now I could enjoy my tea with a clear conscience. Before I was done, Miss Adela came racing out, ready for the drive, with a big slice of plum-cake. "There! that's for you too, museum-boy," she cried. "You're to eat it all up, every bit. I told Mrs. Crane's cousin I wouldn't taste a crumb if I mightn't have a piece for you; and hasn't she cut a lovely big hunch!"
Then Miss Adela was called back, and by the time I had done my cake they all came out. "Was it nice, museum-boy? Wasn't it nice?" Miss Adela cried, jumping about in her delight at a drive in the dusk; and Nurse kept trying to catch her, and to wrap her up warmly, while Miss Adela kept slipping away like an eel. "Isn't it delicious cake?" she persisted; and then Mrs. Crane's cousin came out, and I thanked her; and I heard her whisper pretty loud to Mrs. Crane, "What does make you dislike the boy so? He's got the nicest manners!"
It was getting late, and we had to hurry off. We sat just the same as in going, only Miss Adela made Nurse go in front, and she took the seat opposite to me; and how she did chatter, to be sure! I never heard anybody's tongue go like Miss Adela's at that age. All about Mrs. Crane's cousin, and Mrs. Crane's cousin's husband, and Mrs. Crane's cousin's husband's horses, till I'm sure I felt bewildered. Mrs. Crane didn't half like it, and she frowned at Miss Adela once or twice; but it was no manner of use, so she took to talking with Nurse instead.
Well, I suppose we had got about half-way home, going at a steady jog-trot, and I was listening to Miss Adela, and not paying particular attention to anything, when all at once the pony stopped, and began to back. Nurse gave a scream, and Mrs. Crane did the same; and in one moment the cart was off the road, and nearly up to the axles in a pond full of slimy greenish water.
It didn't take me long to think what to do. At the first sound of the scream I was up and over in the water, with a splash, and at the pony's head—just in time to keep him from backing further. For I knew this pond shelved pretty fast, and about the middle it was deep enough to give anybody a good ducking—perhaps to drown one. Besides, there was some danger of the little light cart turning over.
Mrs. Crane and Nurse shrieked again; and the pony put his ears back and looked wicked, and I could hear Miss Adela begging, "Oh, museum-boy, do get us out!" But that was easier said than done; for the pony had got an obstinate fit, which we found afterward was his way; and he wouldn't budge for anything or anybody. The moment I loosened my grasp he began to back again, and as long as I held firm he kept pretty still; but move forward he wouldn't. It was no earthly use for me to pull.
"What is to be done? O dear me!" gasped Mrs. Crane. "Hold on tight, Miles—do! there's a good boy! Don't let go! I know we shall all be drowned."
"Hand me the whip, please," said I.
"No, no, I can't have him beaten; not on any account," cried she; and she held the whip with both hands. "He will kick, and turn us all over, and we shall be drowned. And I've got my best bonnet on! O dear! O dear!"
"I can't make him stir without the whip," said I.
"I won't have him beaten; I know it isn't safe! Just hold tight on, there's a good boy," begged Mrs. Crane, in a despairing voice. "Perhaps he'll change his mind presently; the horrid little beast! Or somebody may go by. Don't let go, Miles. What a mercy you came, to be sure!"
She had never spoken so politely to me before; and I began to see a dawn of better days. But I had no time to think of myself, for there was no knowing what trick the pony might be up to next; and I didn't want to have them all soused in cold water, on a January afternoon, three miles away from home; more especially Miss Adela, who was given to taking bad colds. I was wondering how in the world to get them out; and, despite all I could do, the pony backed again a few inches. So then Mrs. Crane and Nurse set up another shriek, and Miss Adela looked quite white and shivering, as if she was getting frightened.
"Miss Adela," said I, "you just come to the corner, please—this side—and tell me if you think you could jump into my arms, if I move a step nearer."
"Yes, I'm sure I could," said she.
"Then stand up firm; and when I say 'Now,' you jump as far as you can, and I'll catch you. Don't be in a hurry. Are you quite ready—quite? Now!"
She jumped like a little kangaroo, and the same instant I let go the pony, and held out both arms. I had her safe, and with one bound I set her on the grass, and was back at the pony's head. But he had used his opportunity, and the cart was deeper in than before.
"Now Miss Adela's safe," said I, and perhaps I gave a breath of relief, which wasn't altogether kind to the two who were still in the cart. "If you'll give me the whip, I'll get you both out; and if not, we may have to stay here till midnight. You and Nurse couldn't jump like that; and if you could, I shouldn't be able to carry you."
"No, indeed!" Mrs. Crane said; but all the same she held to the whip, and would not give it up. She was sure the pony would kick, and sure I didn't know anything about horses; and if I only would hold on tight, like a dear good boy—yes, she actually said "dear"—somebody would come by very soon, or else the pony would get tired, and would give in.
I don't know how soon the pony was likely to get tired, but I knew I was getting heartily tired of standing knee-deep in slimy water, lugging at an obstinate little brute who wouldn't move. I was just going to say that if she would not give me the whip, I should have to leave at the pony, and go after other help,—I thought this might have the effect of frightening her into yielding, and it was so bad for Miss Adela, waiting about in the cold,—I was just going to say something of that sort when all at once the pony took into his head to do the very thing that Mrs. Crane was most afraid of. He gave a kick and a plunge, and backed again, spite of all I could do, and one wheel caught in a big stone under water, and the cart went over, not in a hurry, but quietly and deliberately, in a sort of business-like way.
Those two women did scream, and no mistake, when they felt it going; and I heard Miss Adela's frightened "Oh! Oh! Oh!" joining in from the shore. Nurse held on gallantly to the upturned cart; but Mrs. Crane floundered about in the water loosely, like a great walrus; though of course nobody ever told her so afterwards. Just there the pond wasn't deeper than up to her waist; but she had no presence of mind for finding her feet or standing up; and if I had not been at hand, it is as likely as not that she would have been drowned, out of sheer fright and helplessness.
Well, I pulled and tugged her to shore somehow, she spluttering and screaming as much as she had breath for; and she did look a woeful-looking object, to be sure, all streaming with water and streaked with green slime: and her best bonnet was a wonderful sight. Next I went after Nurse, and brought her out too. She had managed to keep her head and shoulders dry, by not losing all her wits. The question in my mind, as I helped Nurse to land, was, what in the world to do with them next? For there was the cart to be righted, and the pony to be seen to; and Miss Adela was looking like a ghost; and we were near three miles from home; and Mrs. Crane was declaring that nothing in the world should ever make her sit behind that pony again; and yet if she and Nurse couldn't get into dry clothes quickly, it might cost them their lives.
JUST as I got to shore, helping Nurse, and looking down to choose her steps for her, I heard a sort of shout—half laughter, half astonishment. "Oh! I say!"—and then Miss Adela crying out,—"O Bertie! Bertie!" And I saw Mr. Bertram holding Miss Adela, and trying to comfort her; with his face all the time full of mischief, and yet in a way concerned too, as he kept looking away from Miss Adela to Mrs. Crane, who seemed dreadfully ashamed and flurried, and all in a shake, and not far from hysterics. Miss Adela had begun to sob, clinging to him tight.
"But how in the world did it happen?" said Mr. Bertram, after a good lot of exclamations on both sides, for which he wasn't much the wiser. "And how is it you're not wet, Addie? As dry as a bone!"
I told him, quick as I could, about the way things had come about, and asked him what was to be done,—Nurse standing by, pretty patient, while Mrs. Crane kept groaning, "O dear! O dear!" in a way that was interrupting, to say the least. She put in her word, before Mr. Bertram could answer me, which wasn't like her usual respectful ways; but when a woman has been floundering in slimy green water, wearing her best new Sunday bonnet, it isn't a wonder if for once she should forget herself a little. "She wasn't going to sit behind that pony again," she said. "No! never! not if she knew it! A horrid little ill-conditioned brute! He'd be the death of somebody some day! She wouldn't be driven any more—no, never! She would just walk home,— yes, exactly as she was."
"I say, Crane, you'll catch your death of cold, if you stand there speechifying," said Mr. Bertram. "Nothing is less likely than your having to sit behind the pony again at present, in that particular cart! You and Nurse must hurry off sharp to Brooks' farm—you know the way—it's not half a mile. Be as quick as you can, and get your wet things off, and go to bed, or roll yourselves up in blankets, whichever you like."
"Miss Adela, sir?" said Nurse, shaking.
"Never mind Miss Adela. She's all right with me. We'll come presently. Don't wait for us or anybody. Off with you both, and run, run!" shouted Mr. Bertram, as they took him at his word. "Get warm, if you can; and mind you have something hot to drink, the first thing."
"O Bertie! it has been so dreadful!" sighed Miss Adela.
"I say, Addie, just look at them trying to run," said Mr. Bertram, in a whisper, to make her laugh, for she was sobbing still, off and on. "Don't you mind," said he. "It'll be all right. Nobody's drowned. We've got to unharness the pony now, and then Miles must walk or ride him home and send a fly to the farm. Send dry clothes too for Crane and Nurse. One of the maids, will see to that. Shall I help you, Miles?" said he.
I was at work on the straps already, standing knee-deep in water; and I said I didn't want any help. There was no need for Mr. Bertram to get himself wet too, I thought; besides Miss Adela couldn't bear to have him go away from her side. So he only waited a few minutes to see how I could manage, and then he walked off to the farm with Miss Adela.
The pony seemed to think he had done enough mischief for one day—as no doubt he had—and he stood like a lamb while I got him free. I could do nothing with the cart by myself; it was right over on one side, and the shafts were snapped in two. So I just led the pony out, and gave him a little punishment for his bad behaviour, which he took as well as possible; and then I got on his back, being used now and then to ride Mr. Kingscote's pony without a saddle. He started off at a canter, and never stopped once till we reached The Myrtles.
I left the pony in the stable, advising that somebody should be sent to see after the cart; while I went straight to Mr. Laurence, only stopping on the way to tell Matilda what had happened, as I thought she might like at once to get together the dry clothes, and to order the fly ready. "Mr. Bertram wished it," I said. I didn't make much of my own share in the adventure. Matilda held up her hands in a startled way, and went off without a word.
Mr. Laurence was reading in his study as usual; and he was much too busy to notice at first anything particular in my look. "Miles—that's right," he said. "I expected you about this time. Something I want done—a little copying. Where is Miss Adela, by-the-bye? Master Bertram went to meet her. Is he—why, Miles!"—as I came nearer the light—"what can have happened? My boy, what a state your trousers are in!"
"Yes, sir; we have been in the pond," I said. "But nobody is hurt."
"Been in the pond!" Mr. Laurence stared at me like one distracted. "In the pond!"
"The pony backed in and overturned the cart," I said, "and Mrs. Crane and Nurse have had a wetting; but Miss Adela is all right. Mr. Bertram and they are gone to the farm near; and Mr. Bertram said a fly was to be sent."
"To be sure! to be sure! A fly! But my child—my little Adela!" he said, too much agitated to take in what I had said; at least, he didn't fully. "My little Adela! To be wet through at this time of year,—and so late!"
"No; not Miss Adela, sir," I said. "I was able to get her to dry ground before the cart turned over."
Nothing would content Mr. Laurence but hearing the whole. He listened and questioned, and wouldn't stir or let me go till he understood exactly what had happened. By that time Matilda knocked at the door, and was told to come in.
"I hope I've done right, sir," she said. "I have ordered the fly to be here as quick as possible; and the clothes are all ready. Would you like me to go to the farm, sir, and see if I can help?"
"Well, yes; I think that might be best, perhaps," hesitated Mr. Laurence. "Stay—I am not sure—" And she had to wait while he stood up and shook my hand warmly. "I owe you a great deal, Miles," said he. "You once saved the life of my godson; and now, it may be, you have saved the life of my grandchild too, by your promptitude. She is a delicate little creature, and a chill is a dangerous thing. I hope Crane and Nurse will not suffer. Yes, pray go, Matilda; certainly you had better go. And tell Mr. Bertram that I wish him and Miss Adela to return at once. If the others are not ready, the fly can go again for them."
"May I change my wet things, sir, now?" I asked.
"Why, to be sure! You don't mean to say you are standing in damp clothes all this time?" exclaimed Mr. Laurence. "Be off at once, Miles, and don't waste a moment. Get into dry clothes directly, or we shall have you ill."
I did not expect that, for I was hardy, and used to getting wet; but, naturally enough, both Mrs. Crane and Nurse caught bad colds, and Mrs. Crane especially was bad enough to be in bed for a week.
A good ten days passed before I saw her again, and all that time others in the house were much more civil to me than they had yet been. Nurse thanked me more than once for getting her out of the pond, and Miss Adela was always talking about it.
The first appearance of Mrs. Crane was at tea, and I saw directly that I wasn't to be treated any more as an interloper. She gave me the best of everything on the table, and she talked to me politely, and, altogether, she put me on a footing with herself, which certainly she had never done before. It wasn't Mrs. Crane's way to acknowledge herself in the wrong, or to say she was sorry for the past, and I don't think she ever went so far as actually to thank me for pulling her out of the pond; but "actions speak louder than words," and she made a difference in her manner of treating me, which nobody could have mistaken.
I wondered if this would last, and I found it did. Mrs. Crane might not have a graceful way of expressing gratitude, but, at all events, her gratitude lasted. My rubs and difficulties in that way were over, and very glad I was that I had managed to live through them, without giving any real cause for offence, or showing bad tempers in return.
My boy, Miles, seems to have come to a stop in his writing, and he says I'm to add something here. If I do, the first thing I'm likely to put down is, how thankful I am to have such children as mine! I don't think I am what is called "fond and foolish" about my children. That is to say, I don't think mine is a blind love, able only to see good in them, and able to see nothing that is wrong. The best and highest kind of love isn't a blind love—at least, I should think not.
Miles has his faults, like other boys; and one fault shows pretty clearly in this bit of our story which he has written. I mean, he has the fault of thinking too much about himself. There is a lot about "I—I," and "what I have done, and what I think," and "what people think of me," and that's a pity always. The more we think about ourselves, the less leisure we have to think about other people.
I wonder whether anybody reading my part of the story—I mean the part I wrote myself —would perhaps say the same of me! I never thought of that before; but things look so different from outside and inside, and it may be so.
Well, anyhow, as I say, I'm not blind to my children's faults, and I'm not blind to this fault of Miles'. But, all the same, I am thankful to have my boy what he is. For I know that he is honest and straightforward and true: that he is hardworking, and diligent, and ready to do a kindness to anybody. And I know that Mr. Laurence thinks a lot of my boy. He told Mrs. Kingscote the other day, that he "would trust Miles with anything." That was nice for a mother to hear, wasn't it?
As for my other children, Louey and Rosie, they are both as good and affectionate as I could wish. Louey is more and more of a help to me in the house, and Rosie bids fair to follow in her steps.
And my other little one—my sweet Bessie—it is all well with her, I know, though a veil has come between, and I cannot see or touch her more. Yet often I feel that she is even nearer to me than my dear ones who seem so near; for the veil between is very thin, and she and I are both in Christ's keeping. And oh, how safe she is? For the three elder ones I am often anxious, picturing their future in this life, and possible dangers and temptations. But for Bessie, all anxiety is over! she is beyond danger and beyond temptation. If I could have her back again, would I? Ah, that would be a hard question to answer, if put to me! Hard to say "No," and yet how grieved she would be to have to come! It would be like going from the Queen's palace to live in some dark cellar. Oh no! I love her too well to wish it really, even while nothing can ever fill that blank in my life.
Sometimes I think my husband was struck down too, that I might have the more to fill my time and thoughts during the months following. For a long while he improved so slowly, it could hardly be called getting on at all; and though the doctor spoke of a measure of recovery, I knew he never could be a strong man again. We didn't dare at first to hope that he would ever get back his walking-power. And though things were better than we feared, and he did in time gain strength to move slowly with a stick, yet he has always been something of an invalid, needing a lot of care, and not able to do much in the way of work.
The lodging-house plan was a success. From the time we first began, I never knew for the next three years what it was to have empty rooms in spring, or summer, or autumn; and we were able to lay by for winter months. Miles too earned more, and he brought all his earnings to me. It is wonderful how, one way and another, we were helped.
But isn't that the way? If trouble comes, and we put our trust in God, isn't help sure?
I don't mean just a careless indifferent sort of confidence that things will get right somehow, but a real living trust in the Fatherly love of God, and in the willingness of Christ our Lord always to hear when we pray, and to do for us what we really need. That can never be in vain. The help mayn't come exactly as we should choose; but one way or another it will come.
THE END.
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