Bernard rushed to meet Lucilla
She only seemed anxious that Lucy and Emily should look well
"Well,"said Henry Fairchild, "it is just as I knew it would be;mine is the prettiest story, and it is the longest, and that is something."
"No, no!" replied Emily; "if a story is stupid, its being long only makes it worse."
"But it is not stupid," says Henry, "as it comes in at the end so nicely, and in so much bustle. I do love a story that ends in a great bustle."
"Well," said Emily, "my story finishes with as great a bustle as yours; and wemustsay that Lucy has chosen two very nice books; so, Lucy, we thank you with all our hearts."
We have been so busy over the stories which Lucy brought, that we have taken no notice of the note and parcel which came from Miss Darwell.
The note was to invite the Misses Fairchild and Master Fairchild to spend her birthday with her. She asked them to come very early, and they were to come in their playing dresses, and then they could bring others with them,because in the evening there would be company. She offered to send a carriage for them; and she said that a note would come to invite their parents to dinner. The little lady seemed to have thought of everything to make the day pleasant to them.
Mrs. Fairchild's children were not so rich as Miss Darwell, but they were as well brought up; and Mrs. Colvin had heard this, and was glad to have the opportunity of seeing these children.
The parcel contained a few small presents, which Emily and Lucy thought a great deal of, and put by amongst their treasures.
The day of Miss Darwell's birthday came, after what Henry called a very long time. Time seems very long to children; they think a month as long as old people think a year. Henry talked of a year or two past as of a time a long while ago.
Lucy and Emily looked out the very first thing that morning to see what weather it was; but Henry did more, he got up and went out as soon as he heard anyone stir, and saw John cleaning the horse, that he might be ready for Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild in the afternoon.
Soon after breakfast Mrs. Fairchild got the children ready,in their neatest morning dresses, according to Miss Darwell's desire; meaning to bring their evening things when she came. But they were hardly ready when a little pony-carriage, driven by a careful old man, came for them from Miss Darwell; for this young lady never forgot the chance of doing a kindness.
They got into the little carriage, and were driven away. Henry sat by the servant in front, and his sisters in the seat behind.
"My little lady," said the servant, "bade us be sure to bring you all safely, and very soon, Master Fairchild."And then he went on to say what a dear, good young lady she was. "But she bade me not tell what is to be done this evening; and you are not to ask anybody about it."
"Then I will not," said Henry; "though I want to know very much."
"To be sure you do, master,'" said the man; "but you will know by-and-by."
As they came near the park, they saw several fine carriages drawing towards the house.
"We are going to have a world of company," said the man; "but Miss Darwell has no visitors in her own rooms but you and your sisters, Master Fairchild. My lady would have had more invited, but Mrs. Colvin begged off; and so you and the young ladies are much favoured."
And then, giving his horse a fillip, away they went, bowling along over the park amid high fern brakes, lofty trees, and many deer.
"I see something white through the trees," said Henry; "look, look, all along under the branches—see, Lucy—see, Emily!"
"Do you, master?" answered the servant; "well, that is unaccountable; but look before you—what do you see there?"
"Only trees," replied Henry, "and fern."
"Look again, master," said the man.
And Henry looked again till he had quite passed the place where the white things might be seen, and indeed had forgotten them.
When they came to the house and drove to the door, a footman appeared, and was directed to lead the little ladies and gentleman to Miss Darwell's rooms. The man went before them upstairs and along the galleries to the door of that very room where they had been received by poor Miss Augusta Noble.
As the footman, having opened the door, mentioned their names, they saw that everything within the room was just the same as it had been. But there was a nice elderly lady, dressed in black silk, who sat near the open window. She seemed, by the book in her hand, to have been reading to a pretty fair girl, nearly of the age of Lucy, who sat on a stool at her feet.
These were Mrs. Colvin and Miss Darwell; and when they heard the names announced, they both rose and came to meet their visitors. They both smiled so sweetly, and spoke so pleasantly, that they took all fear at once from the children.
Mrs. Colvin herself took off the bonnets and tippets, and laid them aside; and Miss Darwell said, "I am glad you came so soon; I told Everard to make haste."
As soon as they were ready, Miss Darwell began to talk of what they were to play at. Mrs. Colvin gave them leave to go out for a time to play in the shade of what they called the cedar-grove, a place near the house, but they all begged her to go with them.
"Not to play, my dears," she said; "I can't run."
"No, ma'am," said Lucy; "but you can have a book and sit down and read, as then you can see us at play."
"Well, then," said Mrs. Colvin, smiling, "I will come." And away they all went to the cedar-grove.
As they were going Henry said:
"I am not to ask what is to be done this evening."
"No," replied Miss Darwell; "you ought not even to say, 'I am not to ask.'"
When they had got into the grove, and Mrs. Colvin was seated, they began to consult about what they should play at. As Miss Darwell had not often any children to play with, she did not know of half the games that others did.
"Let us play at Little Edwy and the Echo," said Lucy.
"But we have no echo here," said Miss Darwell.
"Then Henry shall be Edwy, and I will be the echo: and it is me you shall try to catch," replied Lucy; "and you shall have to run for it. Henry, you must call, and I will answer, but they shall not find me."
Lucy could run almost as quick as a greyhound, and she managed the game so well, that it took up the whole time Mrs. Colvin allowed them to stay out of doors. It was getting hot, and they went back into the house, and to their room.
"Now," said Mrs. Colvin, "you shall take your visitors into your play-room, Miss Darwell, and leave the door open, my dear, that I may hear you and see you; I know you like to have me near you."
"Yes, I do, dear Mrs. Colvin," said Miss Darwell; and she put her arms round the excellent governess's neck and kissed her; and then, running and opening a door, led her visitors into a large room which they had not seen before. It was furnished with shelves, on which many books and toys were ranged in order—for it was one of Mrs. Colvin's wishes to make her pupil neat.
Mr. Fairchild's children quite cried out at the sight of these things; there were enough to furnish a toy-shop, besides the books.
Miss Darwell said, "Which would you like?"
Henry fixed upon a large Noah's ark, and when it was reached down, he placed himself on the floor, and made a procession of its inmates. He placed Noah himself in front, with his little painted wife, and Shem, Ham, and Japhet, and their wives after him. Then came the beasts, and then the birds, and then the insects and creeping things. Lucy chose a dissected map of England and Wales, and another which formed a picture; and Emily,a box of bricks and doorways, and pillars and chimneys, and other things for building houses.
Mrs. Colvin had told the children that they were to keep themselves quiet till dinner-time; so Miss Darwell took her doll, andfor a long time they were all very still with their toys: they were to dine at half-past one, and Henry had not done with his ark when a female servant came into the outer room to lay the cloth.
"For a long time they all very still with their toys."—Page 389.
"For a long time they all very still with their toys."—Page 389.
"It is time to put up now," said Mrs. Colvin, calling from the next room.
Lucy and Emily and Henry began immediately to put the things they had been playing with into the cases, and Lucy was putting her dissected map into the place from which she had taken it, when Miss Darwell said:
"Don't put it away, Miss Fairchild; it shall be tied up ready to go with the carriage."
Lucy did not understand her.
"Did you not choose it, Miss Lucy?" said Miss Darwell; "if you please to accept it, I will send it in the carriage to-night with the bricks and the ark."
"Thank you, dear Miss Darwell," Lucy answered; "but we must not take anything, unless your mamma and my mamma give leave."
At that instant Mrs. Colvin called Lucy.
"I called you, my dear, to tell you that you are quite right: you ought never to receive a present without your mamma's leave, and ought never to desire to receive one. But I have no doubt that Miss Darwell will remember to ask Mrs. Fairchild this evening if you may have them."
"I will," said Miss Darwell; "I hope I shall not forget it in the bustle."
"Shall I tell you of it?" said Henry.
Lucy and Emily got as red as scarlet when Henry said these words; but Mrs. Colvin whispered:
"Let him alone, he is very young, and he will get wiser as he gets older."
"I shall be obliged to you to remind me of it, Henry," said Miss Darwell; "and I will speak the moment I see Mrs. Fairchild."
How happily did the four children and the good governess dine together that day before the open window, where they could smell the sweet flowers in the garden below, and see a large pool which was beyond the trees, and still beyond that the green heights of the park.
"I see people," said Henry, whose eyes were everywhere, "going up the park by that pretty white building which looks like a temple with a porch—there they go—I see women and children—and there are men carrying baskets. What are they doing, ma'am?" he added, looking at Mrs. Colvin.
"Taking a pleasant walk this fine afternoon," she answered; "and we will walk too by-and-by, but upon one condition, as it is so very warm, that after dinner you will each of you take a book and sit quite still, until I speak the word for all to move."
"Might I play with Noah's ark, ma'am, instead?" said Henry; "I will not move."
"Very well," said Mrs. Colvin; and when they had dined, she directed Lucy and Emily to choose their books and sit down in any place they chose.
Miss Darwell also took a book, as did Mrs. Colvin; and so still was everyone, that it might have been thought that there was not a creature in the room but the Seven Sleepers, unless it might be two or three bees which came buzzing in and out.
"How pleasant," thought Mrs. Colvin, "it is to have to do with well-behaved children! I should not mindhaving these little Fairchilds always with me, at least till Henry is fit only to be managed by men."
Lucy and Emily wished much to know what was going to be done in the park, but they did not find the time long. Lucy had chosen theHistory of Mrs. Teachum, and Emily theAdventures of Robin, Dicksy, Flapsy, and Pecksy, quite a new book, which she had never seen before. The great people in the parlour were to dine at four o'clock, that they also might go into the park afterwards; and a little before four the waiting-maid came up with the best things for Master and the Misses Fairchild, packed in a bandbox, the pretty presents of Miss Crosbie not having been forgotten.
When Mrs. Colvin saw the box she called the children to her; they all came running but Henry.
"Now, my dears," she said, "you have been very quiet, and it is time to dress;" and she offered the maid's help to dress Lucy and Emily.
"No, thank you, ma'am," said Lucy; "we have no one to wait upon us at home; we always dress each other."
"I wish," said Miss Darwell, "that I had a little sister whom I might dress; but Mrs. Colvin always dresses me," she added in a whisper to Lucy, "because she loves me, and I love her."
"But where is Henry?" said Mrs. Colvin.
They went to look, and there was he, sound asleep on the floor in the play-room, with Shem, Ham, and Japhet in his hands, and all the birds and beasts about him.
"Well," said Mrs. Colvin, "I did think he was the quietest boy that I had ever known, but he has lost a little credit with me now; most boys are quiet when they are asleep."
Emily stooped down and kissed him, which caused him to wake; but when he was aroused he looked about him insuch a surprised way that all the little girls laughed heartily, and he looked as if he felt ashamed.
Mrs. Colvin set him to pack up his ark, whilst she showed Emily and Lucy into a room to dress, saying:
"When you are ready, come to me, that I may see that all is right."
When they were dressed they called Henry, who was yet to be dressed, and then sought Mrs. Colvin; she, too, was ready, and Miss Darwell was standing by her.
The little lady, according to the taste of her mother, was set off with lace on her sleeves and feathers in her hat, and coloured shoes, and everything which could make a child fine; but her manner was not the least changed; she only seemed anxious that Lucy and Emily should look well. Mrs. Colvin turned them about, examining them, and made some amendment in the tying and pinning.
"Well," she said, "you look very nice; little girls should always attend to neatness; it is a compliment due to those who care for them; and now each of you give me a kiss, and we will be off, as I see Henry is now ready, and Everard is waiting." They all then went down, and found Everard at the hall-door with the pony-carriage. A boy was holding a small horse by the carriage. "Now," said Mrs. Colvin, "how is it to be managed, Miss Darwell? Suppose I walk?"
"No, no!" cried Miss Darwell; "Henry is to ride; I know he will like it, and Joseph shall walk by him, and you shall sit in front with Everard, and we little ones will go behind. There is quite room, and it is a very little way, and it will be so pleasant;" and thus it was settled, to the immense joy of Henry.
Away they went through one gate and another gate, till they came upon the green smooth drive which went quite round the park.
"Is not this pleasant?" said Miss Darwell, taking the hand of Lucy and Emily on each side; "but please first to call Henry, and tell him that I have settled about the things. I sent a note to Mrs. Fairchild whilst you were dressing, with a pencil to write yes or no, and she wrote the right word; so Henry will not have to remind me. Mrs. Colvin always tells me not to put things off. But now you shall know what we are going to do. Mamma lets me have a pleasure on my birthday, so I asked to have all the children in the parish invited to have tea in the park; and mamma has had tents put up, and we have got music, and the children are to play, and the old people are to come with the children. I was only afraid it would not be fine, but it is fine," she added, clapping her hands in her great delight; "but I would not tell you, that you might have something to guess about."
They first went up a rising ground, then they came to a grove; then they passed under the white building which Henry called a temple. Then they saw a lovely sparkling waterfall; then they came to an open place, green and smooth; then they came to another grove, and there they found that they were getting amongst the people, some of whom Henry had seen going to that place three or four hours before. When country people have a holiday, they like to make the most of it; and very soon they saw the tents through the trees.
Henry was first, and he looked back to his sisters as if he would have said, "These are the white things I saw this morning." There were four tents; they had pointed tops, but were open on the sides; tables were spread in each of them, and also under the trees in various places round about; and there sat several musicians on a bank. The people all about, men and women and children, were like bees swarming about the tents. There were parties ofyoung people and children who had been playing and amusing themselves, but they all stood still when they saw the carriage coming, and the music struck up a fine merry tune to welcome the little lady.
There were none of the grand people from the house yet come; those that were there were chiefly the cottagers, but they had all their very best dresses on, and all the poor children were dressed exactly alike. They wore dark blue cotton frocks with white tippets, and aprons, and caps. There were a few persons present, seated in one of the tents, who were not among the poor. Henry immediately saw Mrs. Burke and her daughters, for Mrs. Burke smiled kindly at him; the boys were somewhere among the people.
But though there were so many, there was no fear that the feast would run short, for the tables were heaped up with bread and butter and cakes, and fruit, and tea and sugar, and there were pails of milk standing under the trees, and more bread, and more fruit, and more of everything. It was settled that when Miss Darwell came, the feast was to begin.
"Oh!" cried Lucy, "how pleasant everything looks!"
There was not time for any more to be said, for the carriage was getting close to the tents; it stopped, and Mrs. Colvin and the young people alighted.
Miss Darwell was received by many smiling faces; every child looked at her with innocent delight, and the women murmured, "Bless her sweet face!" And then orders were given that the feast was to begin, and the people settled themselves on the grass in small parties.
Mrs. Colvin having given Miss Darwell a hint, she went to speak to Mrs. Burke, and invited her and her daughters to come and assist in serving the people, and seeing that everyone had as much as they wished.
Kind Mrs. Burke was the very person to like to be asked to do such a thing, and the Misses Burke could not be offended when they saw Miss Darwell as busily engaged as she possibly could be.
"Now," said she to Lucy, and Emily, and Henry, "now you are to come with me; look at that little party under that oak; there is a very old woman and two children. There are more people near, but I don't want you to look at them—come close to them." And they all four walked towards them.
"Do not stir, do not speak," said Miss Darwell, to the two children and the old woman; "let Master and the Misses Fairchild see if they recognise you again."
The little ones under the tree entered into the joke, and sat quite still. The boy, indeed, laughed and chuckled; but the little girl kept her countenance. The old woman did not know Mr. Fairchild's children, so she had no trouble to keep herself from smiling.
All these three were neatly dressed, and their clothes looked quite new. The boy had a suit of what is called hodden-gray, with a clean shirt as white as the snow.
"I do not know them," said Lucy.
"But I do," cried Henry.
"And so do I," said Emily; "they are Edward and Jane."
"Yes, Miss," said the two little ones, jumping up.
"And it is all through you," added Edward, "that the good little lady has done everything for us: and the house is new thatched, and the walls made as white as paper; and more money given to grandmother; and me cowboy at Squire Burke's; and Jane in the school—don't Jane look well in them clothes, sir? Oh, that was a good day when we lighted on you, Master and Miss!" And the poor boy pulled the front lock of his hair and bowed I know not how many times.
When every person had as much as was good for them, and a few persons, perhaps, a little more, orders were given that what remained should be set in order in the tents for supper; and then the music struck up. And whilst the elder people were amusing themselves in other places, Miss Darwell called all the little girls to follow her into a pretty green glade among the trees, and hidden from the rest of the company.
Mrs. Colvin went with her, for she was never willing that her good governess should lose sight of her; and Lucy and Emily were equally anxious for her presence. Henry was the only boy allowed to come.
"Now, Lucy," said Miss Darwell, for she was getting quite fond of her, "now there is to be some play, but I do not know many games; so you and Emily must lead. What shall we have?"
"Lucy knows a thousand thousand games!" cried Henry.
After some talking, "Hunt the Hare" was chosen; and Lucy, who was a particularly quick runner, was chosen for the hare, and everyone was to follow Lucy in and out wherever she went.
All the children were to stand with joined hands in a circle; Lucy was to be in the middle. They began with dancing round her, and when they stopped she was to begin to run, and after ten had been counted, one other was let loose to follow her, and then the whole pack, as Henry called them, at a signal given.
Miss Darwell got between Henry and Emily in the circle; Lucy was put into the midst; and they danced round her, singing, "My leader, my leader, I will follow my leader wherever she goes!" Then they stood still, and Lucy began to run out under one pair of hands and in under another, and back again, and about and about like a needlein a piece of cloth; and when ten had been counted, Henry was let loose, and then the sport really began. They expected he would have caught her immediately; he was as quick as ever his little legs would allow, and as true to all her windings as the thread is to those of the needle. But when he was following Lucy the last time through the middle of the circle, he gave the signal for the whole party to loose hands and follow him, and away they all went. But they could not get on for laughing, for Lucy had as many pranks as Harlequin himself, so that several of the children, and amongst these Miss Darwell herself, fairly stood still to laugh.
This game lasted for some time. Then came "Puss in the Corner"; and then, as Mrs. Colvin thought there had been strong exercise enough, the evening being very hot, she made all the children sit down, and asked who could tell a story.
"Lucy can," said Emily; and Lucy then, without hesitation, told the story of "Edwy and the Echo," by the particular desire of Miss Darwell.
Lucy had one particularly pleasing quality, which arose in some degree from the habit of quick obedience in which she had been brought up; this was, that when, in company, desired by a proper person to do anything she could to make herself agreeable, she immediately tried; and when Mrs. Colvin had said, "If you can tell the story, Miss Lucy, do favour us with it," she took her place, and did it as easily as if Emily and Henry only had been by. Emily had the same wish to make herself pleasant as Lucy had, but she was naturally more shy. Everybody was so pleased with Lucy's story that she told another, and that was the story of "Margot and the Golden Fish," which delighted everyone, and was a useful story to the poor children.
But now the sun was beginning to dip its golden disc below the hills, and the sound was heard of carriages. Mr. and Mrs. Darwell, and those who had dined with them, were come up into the park.
Mrs. Colvin called on all the village children to put themselves in the neatest order, and to take their places two and two, she herself arranging Lucy and Emily and Miss Darwell in their bonnets and tippets; and then walked with her train to join the company.
A great number of fine ladies and gentlemen were in the midst and within the tents, and there were Mr. and Mrs. Fairchild.
Mrs. Darwell spoke civilly, but very coldly, to Lucy and Emily. Mr. Darwell spoke kindly. The ladies and gentlemen had a great deal to say to Miss Darwell, but she was become very reserved among so many strangers, and seemed to cling close to Mrs. Colvin.
The village people were then offered more refreshments, and as they could not take much, everything that was left was ordered to be given amongst them; but none of them had gone, when all who had come from the house returned to it.
"I am very sorry you are going, dear Lucy and Emily and Henry," said Miss Darwell; "I have had the happiest day I ever had in my life. I thought I should like you, but I did not know how very much it would be."
The little girls then kissed each other, and Mrs. Colvin gave them a note for their mother.
"This," she said, "is to tell Mrs. Fairchild, that I care not how often you and Miss Darwell meet. I can add no more to that."
The children were to go home with their father and mother; and if they loved Miss Darwell much already, they loved her more for her kindness when they saw threelarge brown paper parcels under the seat of the little carriage.
They had a sweet drive home, though they had not time to tell all that had happened to their mother till the next day; but their parents knew, from Mrs. Colvin's note, as soon as they got home, that their children had behaved very well.
"In their neatest morning dresses."—Page 383.
"In their neatest morning dresses."—Page 383.
"Will Lucy love me?" said the old lady
Afterthis very pleasant day at the park, and long before Lucy and Emily had left off talking about it, a note came from Miss Darwell, to say that they were all going to the sea, for which she was sorry, because she wanted to see them all again.
Lucy answered the note, and said that she and Emily were also very, very sorry; and this they truly were. Several weeks then passed, and nothing particular happened, till a letter came from their grandmamma, saying that her grand-daughter was very ill, and much desired to see her uncle. "Indeed," added the old lady, "I feel that I shall be required to give up my Ellen also; but God does all things well."
The letter came at breakfast-time, and Mr. Fairchild resolved to set out as soon as he possibly could get ready. There was a great bustle for the next hour, and then Mr. Fairchild took leave of his family, and was driven by John to the town—he was to go on from thence by the coach.
The children stood to see them off, and then walked back into the house. Their mother told them to take their needlework and sit down in the parlour; and she gave Henry a book to read whilst she was busy in another part of the house. It was a very hot day, the window was open, and all was still—even the children did not speak for some time; at last Lucy said:
"I hope poor cousin Ellen will not die.What will grandmamma do if she dies?"
"If she did not live so far off," said Emily, "perhaps we might comfort her."
"I never remember seeing her but twice," said Lucy, "and you never saw her, Henry."
They went on talking about their grandmother till Mrs. Fairchild came in and sat down with them, and they still went on with the subject, asking her many questions, especially wherefore their grandmother had come so seldom to see them, and why they had not been asked to see her. From one thing to another they went on till they heard a much more regular account of the history of their family than they had ever heard before.
"When I first knew your father's family, my dears," said Mrs. Fairchild, "your grandmother was living in Reading with two sons: the elder brother soon afterwards went to the East Indies, where he married and had several children. Your father was intended to have been a clergyman, but before he could be ordained he was attacked with an illness, which finished with such a weakness in the chest, that he knew he could never read the Service without danger. We had enough to live on, and we settled here, and here you were all born."
"Yes," said Lucy, "and we love this dear place. We shall never like another so well; it would grieve me to leave it."
"We must take things as they come," said Mrs. Fairchild, going on with her history. "Your uncle was abroad several years, and was enabled to make a very good fortune. Whilst you were a very little baby, Lucy, he returned to England, and then purchased that place where your grandmamma now lives, a place known by the name of The Grove, between Reading and London, on the banks of the Thames. His wife had died abroad, and several children also in infancy. He brought with him two little girls, of five and six years of age, Emily and Ellen; and they were lovely little creatures then," said Mrs. Fairchild; "their very paleness making them only look the more lovely. When I saw that sweet little Emily, I resolved, that if ever I had another girl, it should be an Emily.
"My nieces lost their father only one year after they came to England, and then their grandmother settled herself quite down to give all her attention to them; and truly, from the extreme delicacy of their health, they needed all the care that she could give them. From the very earliest period of their lives they were invariably gentle, humble, and attentive to the comfort of every person who came near to them."
"Were not they like Miss Darwell?" said Henry, who had dropped his book, and was listening with all his attention.
"I think they were, Henry," replied Mrs. Fairchild; "and their outward circumstances were much alike—they were, like her, the daughters of a rich man, and brought up very tenderly. It was about four years since," she continued, "that your lovely cousin Emily died of a rapid decline. A little before her death, seeing her sister weeping bitterly, she said, 'Do not cry, gentle sister, we shall not be parted long.' Ellen never forgot those words, though it was nottill some time afterwards that she reminded your grandmamma of them."
"And do you think she will now die, mamma, and go to her Emily?" said Lucy.
"I cannot say," replied Mrs. Fairchild; "but she has certainly been gradually falling off ever since she lost her sister."
Mr. Fairchild wrote every day; his accounts from the first were bad; they became worse and worse as to the hopes respecting the poor young lady, and her grandmother's anxiety. At last a letter came to say that she was dead, but had died in great peace.
The children cried very much, but more for their grandmother than for their cousin; for they had not a doubt that she was happy. Then, too, Lucy and Emily began to think how they could make up the loss to the old lady, if she would but come and live with them; and then they began to plan what rooms she could have, and were a little puzzled because the house was very small; yet Lucy said she thought it might be contrived.
The next letter from Mr. Fairchild said that he had persuaded his mother to leave The Grove for a few weeks; and that she was to set out the next day with her maid, whilst he remained to settle everything.
The old lady was expected to come the day after the next, as she would sleep on the road; and there was much to be done to get everything ready, and to see after mourning.
Lucy and Emily had many plans for comforting their grandmother; and as the old lady was used to be wheeled about in a Bath-chair, John was sent to the Park to borrow one which had belonged to Sir Charles Noble's mother.
The elder Mrs. Fairchild was old, and had long beenaffected by lameness, which prevented her from walking with ease; and this her daughter-in-law knew. There was nothing she would not have done to make her comfortable. Henry cheerfully gave up his room for the maid, and had a little bed put up for him in the play-room. He had settled that he was to be his grandmother's horse as soon as he saw the Bath-chair.
The children had not known much of their cousins; they had been at their grandmother's only once since they could remember, for the very bad health of their cousins had prevented their going with their father when he went to see his mother; they could not therefore feel for their cousins as if they had known them well, but they thought very much of their grandmother's loss.
Mrs. Fairchild had settled that the old lady was to have the use of their little drawing-room, and no one but herself was to go to her in that room unless she wished it; and she told the children they must expect her to be very sad indeed till after the funeral, and that they must be very quiet, and not come in her sight unless she desired it.
She was not expected until the evening of the third day after they had heard she was coming; and then Henry went up to the top of the round hill to watch for the carriage, and to be the first to give notice of it.
It was not far from six o'clock when he first saw it coming down the hill towards the village, and he was not sure of it for some time; he then ran in, and went up with Lucy and Emily to their window to wait till it came.
After a while they heard the sound of it; then they saw John go to the gate and set it open; then they drew back a little, not to be seen, and came forward when the carriage stopped, but they did not see the old lady get out. Mrs. Fairchild was below to receive her, and to leadher into the house: but they saw the maid busy in seeing the things taken out of the carriage, and they heard her giving her orders. This maid was not the same who had for years waited on the old lady, but one who had taken the place whilst the old waiting-maid stayed behind to take care of the house. This new maid called herself Miss Tilney: her mistress called her Jane, but no one else took that liberty. She was dressed as smartly as she could be in deep mourning; and she gave orders in such a sharp tone that the children could hear every word she said.
She called Betty "young woman," and bade her carry up some of the parcels to her lady's room. She asked John his name; and told the postboy he was not worth his salt.
"Well," said Henry, "there will be no need for my making a noise to disturb grandmamma; that woman would make enough for us all."
"That woman!" cried Emily; "don't speak so loud, she will hear you."
In a few minutes the boxes were all removed, and the carriage driven away; and then the children heard the maid's voice talking to Betty in the next room, which was the only spare room in the house. They heard her say, "Well, to be sure, but our rooms at The Grove are so large, that one is not used to such bandboxes as these."
"I am sure," said Henry, "the room is good enough for her:" and he was going to say more, when his sisters stopped him, and begged him not to listen. "I don't listen," he answered; "I hear without listening."
They were interrupted by Mrs. Fairchild, who came to tell them that their grandmother had asked for them. Mrs. Fairchild walked first, and opened the drawing-room door; there they saw their grandmother. She was a neat little old lady in black, exactly such as they fanciedMrs. Howard had been. She was seated, and looked very pale. At the sight of them she became paler than before; she held out her hands to them, and they all three rushed into her arms.
"My children, my precious children!" said the old lady, kissing one and another as they pressed forward.
"We will be your own grandchildren," said Lucy; "we will comfort you and read to you, and do everything for you. Do not be unhappy, dear grandmamma, we will all be your own children."
The old lady was scarcely able to speak, but she murmured to herself:
"Yes, my God is good, I am not left without comfort."
"Stand back, my dears," said Mrs. Fairchild, "and let your grandmamma look at you quietly—you overpower her."
They drew back. The old lady wiped away a tear or two which dimmed her sight, and then, with a gentle smile, she looked first at Lucy.
"She has the oval face and gentle look so dear to me," said the old lady; "this is Lucy. Will Lucy love me?"
The little girl, being thus called upon, fell again on grandmamma's neck, and quite sobbed with feeling; she soon, however, recovered herself, and pointing to her sister:
"This is Emily, grandmamma," she said.
"Another Emily!" replied the old lady, "I am rich indeed!" and, fixing her eyes on the younger little girl, "I could almost think I had my child again. Daughter," she added, speaking to Mrs. Fairchild, "do my eyes deceive me? Is there not a likeness? But your little girls are such exactly as I fondly wished them to be. And this is Henry, our youngest one;" and she took his hand in hers, and said, "Did you expect to see grandmamma looking so very old, my little man?"
"No, ma'am," replied Henry, "not quite so old;" and the little boy made a bow, thinking how very civil he ought to be to his own father's mother.
"He does not mean to be rude, ma'am," said Lucy.
"I see it, my dear," replied the old lady, smiling. "Do not, I pray you, say anything to destroy his honesty—the world will soon enough teach him to use deception."
Henry did not understand all this, but fearing, perhaps, to lose his place as grandmamma's horse, he took the occasion to ask if he might not be her horse.
"What is it, my child?" said the old lady.
"May I be your horse, ma'am?" he said.
"My horse?" repeated the old lady, looking for an explanation from Lucy; and when she had got it, she made him quite happy by assuring him that no horse could please her better.
She did not drink tea that evening with the family, and went very early to bed; but having seen them all that evening, she was ready to meet them more calmly in the morning, and quite prepared to rejoice in the blessing of having such grandchildren to make up her losses.
"Here, ma'am, you can gather any you like"
Henryarose the next morning as soon as he heard the step of John in the garden, and was very soon with him, asking him what he could do to help him. Henry loved to help John.
John did not answer in his own cheerful way, but said:
"I don't know, Master Henry; it can't much matter now, I reckon, what we do, or what we leave undone."
"Why, John?" said Henry.
"You will know soon enough," John answered, "but it shan't be from me you shall learn it. I suppose, however," he added, "that we must get the peas for dinner; folks must eat, though the world should come to an end next Michaelmas."
"What is the matter, John?" said Henry; "I am sure something is."
"Well," replied John, "if there is nothing else, is it not enough to have that lady's-maid there in the kitchen finding fault with everything, and laying down the law, and telling me to my face that I don't understand so much as to graff a tree?"
"Who says so, John?" asked Henry.
"Why, my lady's maid," replied John; "that Miss Tilney or Tolney, or some such name, as is written as large as life on her boxes. As to the old lady, she has a good right to come here, but she did very wrong to bring that woman with her, to disturb an orderly family. Why, Master Henry, she makes ten times the jabbering Mag does."
"I wish, then, she would fly away over the barn," said Henry, "as Mag did."
"We would none of us go after her," replied John, "to bring her back; but I am a fool," added the honest man; "here have I lived ever since master came here, and most of these trees did I plant and graff with my own hands, and made the sparrow-grass beds and all, and now this woman is to come with her nonsense, and turn everything topsy-turvy."
Henry was quite puzzled; he saw that John was vexed, and he knew that the words topsy-turvy meant upside-down; but he could not understand how the lady's-maid could turn the roots of the trees up in the air. He was going to ask an explanation, when a very shrill voice was heard screaming, "Mr. John, Mr. John!"
"There again!" cried John, "even the garden can't be clear of her—there, Master Henry, put down the basket and be off, she is no company for you. If you see her, and she asks for me, tell her I am gone to clean the pig-sty; she will not follow me there." So off ran John one way, and Henry another.
But Henry was not so lucky in his flight as John was; he ran into a narrow walk enclosed on each side with filberts, and before he was aware came quite opposite to the lady's-maid. He thought she looked very fine—quite a lady herself; and he stopped short, and wished hergood-morning. Had she been the poorest person he would have done the same, for his parents had taken great pains to make him civil to everyone.
"Master Fairchild, I presume," cried the maid. "A charming morning, sir. I was looking for Mr. John, to ask him if he would please to select some flowers to arrange in my mistress's room: she always has flowers in her dressing-room at The Grove."
"John," said Henry, "is gone to clean the pig-sty."
The lady's-maid drew up her lip, and looked disgusted.
"Faugh!" said she, "I shall not think of troublinghimto cull the flowers."
"Shall I get some for grandmamma?" asked Henry.
She thanked him for his politeness, and accepted his offer.
The little boy walked before her to where there was a bit of raised ground covered with rose-bushes.
"There, ma'am," he said, "you can gather any you like."
"Upon my word, Master Fairchild, you are uncommon polite," she said; "I shall tell our people at home what a handsome genteel young gentleman you are. They will be so desirous to know all about you—and not at all high and proud neither, though you have such great prospects."
"What do you mean by great prospects, ma'am?" asked Henry; "I do not understand you."
"That is your humility, Master Fairchild," said the maid; "to be sure, this place is but small, and I wonder how you could have managed in it so long, but it is neat and very genteel; yet, when you have seen The Grove, you will think nothing of this little box here."
"What box?" asked Henry.
"This house, Master Fairchild," she answered; "you might put the whole place into the hall at The Grove."
"What an immense hall!" said Henry in amazement.
"Poor Betty, as I tell her," said the maid, "will be quite out of her place amongst so many servants; she can't bear to hear it talked of."
"What talked of?" answered Henry. "But please not to gather the rose-buds; mamma does not like them to be gathered."
"To be sure, Master Fairchild," said the maid, "and that is just right. In a small garden like this one should be particular; yet, at The Grove, a few rose-buds would never be missed. But you are a very good young gentleman to be so attentive to your dear mamma; I am sure I shall delight our people by the account I shall have to give when I go back; and I am to go back when Mrs. Johnson comes, and that will be in a few days. I shall tell them there that you are not only very good, but vastly genteel, and so like pretty Miss Ellen—and she was quite a beauty—dear young lady! You will see her picture as large as life in the drawing-room at The Grove, Master Fairchild."
Henry did not understand one-half of what the maid said to him, and was very glad when he heard the step of someone coming round the little mound of rose-bushes.It was Emily's step; she came to call him to breakfast; she was dressed with a clean white pinafore, and her hair hung about her face in soft ringlets; she looked grave, but, in her usual way, mild and gentle.
When she saw the maid, she, too, said, "Good-morning."
"That young lady is your sister, no doubt, Master Fairchild," said the maid.
"It is Emily," said Henry.
"I should have known the sweet young lady anywhere,"she answered; "so like the family, so pretty and sogenteel. Miss Emily, I wish you health to enjoy your new place."
Emily was as much puzzled as Henry had been with Miss Tilney's speeches. She said, "Thank you, ma'am," however, and walked away with Henry.
Their grandmother had slept later than usual; she had not rested well in the early part of the night, and had fallen asleep after the rest of the family were gone down.
She was not, therefore, present in the parlour; and when Henry came in, and had gotten his breath—for he and Emily had run to the house—he began to repeat some of the things which the maid had said to him, and to ask what they meant. Emily also repeated her speech to herself; and Lucy looked to her mother to explain these strange things.
"Cannot you guess, my children?" said Mrs. Fairchild, rather changing countenance; "but I had hoped that for a few days this business might not be explained to you. Our servants would not have told you, but I see that others will, so perhaps it is best that you should hear it now."
"What is it, mamma?" said all three at once; "nothing bad, we hope."
"Not bad," replied Mrs. Fairchild, "though it is what I and your dear papa had never wished for."
"Oh, do tell us!" said Lucy, trembling.
Mrs. Fairchild then told them that, by the death of their poor cousin, their father had come into the possession of the house and estate at The Grove, and, in fact, the whole of his late brother's fortune.
The children could not at first understand this, but when they did, they were much excited.
Their mother, after a while, told them that it would probably be necessary for them to leave that dear place, and go to The Grove, their grandmamma wishing to bealways with them, and having her own comfortable rooms at The Grove.
Lucy and Emily began to shed tears on hearing of this, but they said nothing at that time.
Henry said:
"But John, mamma, and Betty—what can we do without them?"
"Can't they go with us, my dear?" said Mrs. Fairchild.
"And John Trueman, and nurse, and Mary Bush, and Margery, and—and—and——" added Henry, not being able to get out any more names in his impatience.
"And the school!" said Emily.
"We do not live in the same house with these persons last mentioned," answered Mrs. Fairchild, "and therefore they would not miss us as those would do with whom we may reside; we must help them at a distance. If you, Lucy and Emily, have more money given you now, you must save it for these poor dear people. Kind Mrs. Burke will divide it amongst them as they want it; and she will look after the school."
"Oh, Emily!" said Lucy, "we will save all we can."
Emily could not speak, but she put her hand in Lucy's, and Lucy knew what that meant.
Who could think of lessons such a day as this? As soon as breakfast was over, Henry ran to talk to John about all that he heard: and Lucy and Emily, with their mother's leave, went out into the air to recover themselves before they appeared in the presence of their grandmother. They were afraid of meeting the maid, so they went up to the top of the round hill, and seated themselves in the shade of the beech-trees.
For a little while they looked about them, particularly down on the house and garden and the pleasant fields around them, every corner of which they knew as well aschildren always know every nook in the place in which they have spent their early days. They were both shedding tears, and yet trying to hide them from each other. Lucy was the first who spoke.
"Oh, Emily!" she said, "I cannot bear to think of leaving this dear home. Can we ever be so happy again as we have been here?"
The little girls were silent again for some minutes, and then Lucy went on:
"Oh, Emily! how many things I am thinking of! There—don't you see the little path winding through the wood to the hut? How many happy evenings we have had in that hut! Shall we ever have another? And there is the way to Mary Bush's."
"Do you remember the walk we had there with Betty a long time ago?" said Emily.
"Ah! I can remember, still longer ago, when you were very little, and Henry almost a baby," said Lucy, "papa carrying us over the field there to nurse's, and getting flowers for us."
"I should like," she added, "to live in this place, and all of us together, just as we are now, a hundred years."
"I feel we shall never come back if we go away," said Emily.
"We shall never come back and be what we have been," replied Lucy; "that time is gone, I know. This is our last summer in this happy place. Oh, if I had known it when we were reading Henry's story at the hut, how very sad I should have been!"
"I cannot help crying," said Emily; "and I must not cry before our poor grandmamma."
"These things which are happening," said Lucy, "make me think of what mamma has often said, that it seldomhappens that many years pass without troubles and changes. I never could understand them before, but I do now."
"Because," added Emily, "we have lived such a very, very long time just in the same way."
The two little girls sat talking until they both became more calm; but they had left off talking of their own feelings some time before they left the hill, and began to speak of their grandmother; and they tried to put away their own little griefs, as far as they could, that they might comfort her. With these good thoughts in their minds, they came down the hill and returned to the house.