NO—THERE WAS NOTHING FOR IT BUT TO LIE STILL.
No—there was nothing for it but to lie still and be as patient as I could. It would be interesting to watch the light growing stronger and changing; it was already doing so in a curious way, as the cold, thin moonshine gave place to the sun, even thenwarmer somehow in its tone than the fullest moon-rays ever are.
'Yes,' I thought, 'they have met and passed each other by now, I should think. I wonder—if——'
Strange to say, I cannot finish the sentence, for I don't knowwhatI was going to wonder! In spite of all my eagerness and excitement I knew nothing more, till—the usual summons, in Hoskins's voice—
'Miss Ida, my dear, it's the quarter-past. You were sleeping soundly—I could scarcely find it in my heart to awake you. But it's Sunday morning, and you know it doesn't do to be late—and a beautiful spring morning too as ever was seen.'
I could scarcely believe my ears.
'Oh, Hoskins!' I exclaimed, 'Iamsleepy. I was awake a good bit quite early, and I had no idea I had gone off again. I wassoawake, thinking.'
The talking thoroughly roused me, and almost at once all the 'thinking' came back to me, so that by the time I was dressed, even though Sunday morning dressing needed a little more care and attention than every day's, I had got it all clear and compact and ready, as it were, for Geordie's cool inspection.
To my great satisfaction he had had a good fit that morning of getting up promptly and beingdown the first after me, instead of, as often happened, the last after everybody.
'Geordie,' I exclaimed, when I caught sight of him standing at the dining-room window, staring out—or perhaps I should say' gazing,' for staring is an ugly word, and the garden that morning was looking so particularly pretty—'Geordie, I am just bursting to talk to you. Is it any use beginning before papa and mamma come down, do you think?'
Geordie looked at the clock on the mantelpiece.
'Yes,' he said; 'we have five minutes, or ten perhaps. Is it anything particular?'
'Of course it is,' I replied, 'or I wouldn't say I was bursting to tell it you. And I think and hope it is something that will please you very much. You are to listen well and not interrupt me and say "nonsense," before you have taken it into your mind and thought it over.'
I saw he already was looking interested, and I was glad of it. His face had been so sad when he first turned at the sound of my voice, and I well knew why. I can almost always understand Geordie and very often guess what he is thinking of. He has such dear blue eyes, but they are the kind that can look very melancholy sometimes. I do hope hewill have a happy life when he grows up—I am pretty sure he will deserve it. Even now that he has been a good long while at school—big public school, I mean—he is just the same to me as ever. When he comes home for the holidays it seems as if he had never been away.
'I won't interrupt you—or say "nonsense," if I can help it,' he answered, with a little fun in his voice and smile coming in his eyes.
Then I told him. I need not repeat all I said, as I have written a lot of it already. But it must have been rather hard for Geordie not to interrupt me. It all bubbled out so fast—all the splendid ideas and good reasons and perhapses—one on the top of the other, so that if he hadn't been pretty well accustomed to my ways he could scarcely have understood. It was quite interesting and exciting, as I went on, to watch the expression in his face—his cheeks grew pink, then crimson, and his eyes brighter and brighter. I soon saw I was not going to be snubbed.
But real want of breath, and then the sound of mamma's skirts coming across the hall with a pretty soft rustle—I don't think any one else's skirts move so nicely; they seem to match her, not like that noisy flustering that is like saying, 'Here I am; Iexpect to be attended to'—made me stop at last. There was only time for George to whisper—
'It's a wonderful idea, Ida. I'll think a lot and then we'll talk about it, by ourselves, first, of course.'
'We mustn't think about it in church,' I replied in the same tone; 'we musttry, I suppose, Dods, not to think of it in church—part of the time, at least. I don't see that it would matter so much during the first lesson, andperhapsone of the psalms, if they are very long ones.'
'No—o, perhaps not,' he said, and then we both ran forward to kiss mamma.
She looked at us, and I saw her face brighten when she saw that ours were not very sad or dull. I think she had been afraid that in his wish to helpher, papa had put too much of the burden on us two, considering how young we were then.
'My darlings!' she said, in a rather low voice, 'my own brave boy and girl,' and I am almost sure the tears came into her eyes. But the smiles came too.
'What a lovely day it is going to be!' she went on, as she glanced out of the window. 'I am so glad. We must put cares aside as much as we can and try to be happy and hopeful.'
'Yes, dear mamma,' I answered cheerfully, and with all the delightful exciting ideas in my head, it was quite easy to be bright, as you can understand, 'yes, wearegoing to have a nice day. Geordie and I'—I glanced at him; he had not exactly said so, but I knew he would not mind,—'Geordie and I want to go down to the hut very soon after luncheon, if you say we may, to get it all ready for you and papa and the little ones, to come to tea.'
'All right,' said mamma, though I saw a tiny shadow cross her face as I spoke, and I knew she was thinking to herself that very likely it would be our last Sunday afternoon tea-party for a very long time, perhaps for ever, as far as the hut was concerned! But these solemn kinds of 'perhapses' are always in our lives, and if we were always thinking of them, it would be more than our minds and hearts could bear. We should notforgetthem, but I am sure we are not meant to be gloomy about them. Still, at the best, even if my grand plan was carried out, there was plenty to be sad about, I knew. Poor papa's going so far away, first and worst of all, and worst of course for mamma, for though we loved him dearly, she must love him, I suppose, still more.
He came into the room just as these thoughtswere flying about my brain. I thought he looked more tired and troubled than mamma—men are not so patient and not always so good at hiding their feelings assomewomen. At leastIthink so!
We two, however, were really feeling cheerful, and I think our brightness made it easier for mamma to be, at least, less sad than she would otherwise have been. And I said to myself—
'Papa will cheer up tooifhe likes our idea, and I really can't see why he should not like it.'
So breakfast got on pretty well on the whole, and as soon as it was over, Dods and I went off for a talk. How we did talk! But first of all—that was so like Dods—he pulled out his watch and looked what o'clock it was.
'It's just half-past nine, Ida,' he said, 'and we must be quite ready by half-past ten. So let's talk till ten, no longer; it always takes you twenty minutes or half an hour to get dressed for church, and you know it vexes papa to be kept waiting. And to-day it's really very important not to vex him at all, if anything is to come of our plan.'
'Very well,' I said; 'I promise to go in at ten.'
Then we went to one of our favourite garden seats and set to work at our idea. It grew and grew; wekept thinking of new bits to it, each saying something which made the other think of something else, till by ten o'clock we began to feel as if it were all quite settled—'cut and dry.'
The very last thing I called out to Geordie as we ran in was about a certain old breakfast set of china we had espied in one of our visits to the garret.
'Yes,' I was saying, 'those willow pattern cups and things would do beautifully. It wouldn't matter their being odd, for then mamma wouldn't mind if some got broken. And very likely, Doddie, thingswillget broken, more than——'
'What are you talking about, my dear child?' said mamma's voice, and, looking round, I saw that she was just coming out of the drawing-room on her way upstairs to get ready for church. 'You don't mean to say that your tea-things at the hut are all broken?'
'Oh no, no, mamma dear,' I replied in a great hurry, and feeling myself grow red, though I don't think she noticed it; 'they are all right—none broken, and only one saucer chipped. But—I was only saying—wemightneed more some time.'
'Ah, well!' said mamma, with a little sigh, 'not at present, at any rate.'
And oh how I wished I could tell her of the plan at once! But of course it was best to wait a little.
I shall never forget that morning at church, and howawfullydifficult it was to give my attention. I found myself counting up the things we should need to make the hut comfortable, even while my voice was saying the responses quite correctly, and any one noticing me would very likely have thought I was being quite good and listening rightly. Dods, whom I glanced at now and then, was looking very grave but not unhappy. I felt sure he was being much better than I—I mean about listening to what he heard and thinking of the words he said—though afterwards he told me that he too had found it difficult.
'What was most bothering me,' he said, 'was about the new rooms—the old parish room, I mean. What do you think, Ida—should it be made into a dining-room and drawing-room, or——'
'Oh no,' I interrupted, 'certainly not. The two front ones looking to the sea must decidedly be the sitting-rooms—the one to the left of the porch, in front of the kitchen, must be the dining-room, and the big dressing-room, the one we have always meant to be a real bedroom, must be the drawing-room. Itis quite a nice, large room, and behind it, the 'messy' room must beyours, Dods, which leaves the parish room to be divided for mamma and Esmé and me. Denzil can be with you—there's plenty of room.'
'But,' said Geordie, 'you're forgetting the servants?'
My face fell at this—I should have said that this conversation was on our way down to the hut that afternoon. We could not talk much before then, as we drove back from church with the others, but we set off as soon as we could after we had had dinner.
'Yes,' I said, 'I was forgetting them altogether, and what's more, Geordie, I haven't the least idea who they are to be, or how many we should have.'
'We must let mamma settle that of course,' he replied. 'Hoskins will be one, anyway. Still—it's a pity we can't propose some place for them, Ida. It makes the whole plan seem rather unfinished and—childish.'
'Like the man who built a house for himself and when it was all finished found he had forgotten a staircase!' I said, half laughing, but feeling rather mortified all the same.
George did not at once reply. He was thinking.We were close to the hut by this time, and he did not say anything till we had unlocked the door and put down our packages and looked round us.
Everything was just exactly as we had left it the evening before, but somehow everything seemed different!
The truth was, I suppose, that we were looking at it all through different spectacles—yesterday it was only a kind of summer-house or play-room—to-day it was a possiblehome. In some ways I felt as if I had never liked it as much; in others I began to be almost frightened at the ideas I was so full of! But as often happened with us, George's cool, common sense put me right.
'Yes,' he said, after he had strolled into the other rooms and stared at them well as if he had never seen them before,—'yes, I don't see why it shouldn't do. And, about the servants, Ida. Of course papa and mamma mustsettleeverything; but if they do take it up seriously and papa buys the iron room, I rather think it's a good deal larger than we have been counting it. I believe it would divide into three quite well. There might be a partitioned-off little room for me, and a large curtain might do to separate mamma from you and Esmé?'
'Yes,' I said, my spirits rising again, 'and that would leave the back room for Hoskins and whomever else we have—Ishould like Margery—wouldn't you, Dods? She is such a good-natured, sturdy little thing. And——'
'We'd better not try to settle too much,' said sensible Geordie. 'And you must talk quietly, Ida, so as to show we have really thought of it not in a—oh, a babyish way, you know.'
I felt a little ruffled at this.
'You'd better tell them all about it yourself, then,' I said; 'Idon't want any of the honour and glory of it, and if there is any fear of their thinking us silly babies, why, then, we had better give up the whole idea.'
'Nonsense, Ida,' said Geordie. 'It was you who first thought of it, and I think you deserve a lot of credit for it. And I expect you'll get it too. I only want papa and mamma—papa especially—to hear of it at first in the best sort of way.'
'Yes—yes, I know!' I exclaimed, 'and you are a sensible old Dods as you always are. And see what I have got to please you,' and I held up three lovely, fat muffins.
We got the kitchen fire lighted and the tea-tablespread in the parlour—I felt inclined to begin calling it 'the dining-room' now—and everything nice and ready before they all came. The first announcement of them was Esmé, who flew in as usual, followed very deliberately by Denzil. She gave me a hug when she saw the table.
'Oh, what a lovely tea!' she said, 'and how delicious the hut looks. Oh,don'tyou wish, Ida, we could live here always?'
I glanced at Dods—we could not help smiling at each other—it seemed a sort of good omen, her saying that, but we did not say anything. Then came papa and mamma—they had walked down slowly through the wood, and as they came to the little 'plateau' where stood the hut, I saw them stop and look at it. Iwonderedif the same idea was in their minds at all. I did not exactly want it to be, for I was rather pleased at being the first finder of it.
No—papa and mamma had not been thinking of anything of that kind—afterwards mamma told me they had only been saying to each other how sweet and pretty it all looked and—though perhaps they did not say so aloud—feeling no doubt how sad it was that we should so soon have to leave it.
But they came in quite brightly, and mamma answered gaily to Esmé's exclamations about the 'lovely tea-party.'
'Yes,' she said, 'it does look nice. And muffins too'—as Geordie glanced up with a very red face from the fire where he was toasting one; 'don't scorch yourselftoomuch, in our service, my dear boy.'
'It's a good bit for myself as well,' said Geordie in his rather gruff way. He always spoke like that if he thought he was being praised—above all, theleastover-praised. 'I like muffins better than any kind of cake or things.'
He certainly knew how to toast and butter them to perfection. I remember how very good they were that day. Indeed, the tea-party was a great success altogether. After it was over we carried all the cups and saucers and plates into the kitchen, to be ready for Margery to wash up, for mamma had left word at home that she was to come down to the hut to do so, which we were very glad of.
'I wanted to be together as much as possible to-day,' said mamma in her kind way. And just as we had cleared away everything in the parlour we saw Margery coming, and to my great delight Esmé asked if she and Denzil might 'help her' in the kitchen, for Dods and I had been wondering how we could get rid of the little ones without seeming unkind.
So off they ran, and then for a few minutes we four—'big ones,' I was going to say, only that does seem putting Geordie and myself too much on a line with papa and mamma, doesn't it?—sat silent. I was feeling rather nervous, not afraid of papa and mamma, but afraid of them thinking it was all a perfectly impossible plan.
But at last, after looking at me several times andeven giving me two or three little kicks, Geordie plunged in, as was his way—
'Ida has something to say to you,' he began. 'It's only fair for her to say it, for it's all her own idea, though we have talked about it a good deal.'
Papa looked at me very kindly.
'What is it, my little girl?' he said. 'I am sure you know how pleased I—and your mother—will be to do anything we can to—to brighten all these troubles.'
He seemed to know by instinct that what I had to say must have to do with what he had told us the day before. Yes—only the day before! I could scarcely believe it—it seemed years ago.
I felt my face growing red; mamma was looking at me too, and though her eyes were very kind, I grew more and more nervous, and of course I blurted it out quite differently from what I had meant to.
'It isn't only for us ourselves,' I began, 'though we should like it ever so much—awfully much better than anything else. But I feel as if it would be nicer for everybody—for mamma too, and for papa, when you are far away, you know,' and here I turned specially to him, 'not to have to think of us in a strange place and among strange people. And—and—thereare lots of little bits of it that seem to fit in so well.'
'But, my dear child, I must interrupt you,' said papa smiling, 'before you go on to the "bits," do tell us what the whole is?'
I had really forgotten that I had not done so—my own mind was so full of it, you see.
'Oh,' I said, feeling very much ashamed of myself, especially as I knew Geordie's blue eyes were fixed on me reproachfully. 'I'm very sorry for being so stupid. It's just this, papa—we've been thinking, at least I thought of it first, and Dods has joined in the planning, that—why shouldn't we all, mamma and us four, come tolivehere, really to live here altogether, while you are away?'
Papa gazed at me as if he did not understand, and no doubt just at first he did not.
'Livehere,' he repeated, 'but that is just——'
'Yes,' I interrupted,—'here, in the hut. I don't mean of course go on living at home, at Eastercove, though it would be Eastercove too. That's the beauty of it; you would be able to feel that wewereat home, and close to all our friends.'
But still papa repeated, in a dazed sort of way, I would say 'stupid,' only it would seem rude—
'Livehere.'
(I do think men are far slower at taking up new ideas than women.)
'Livehere,' he said again, till I really wished it would not be disrespectful to give him a little shake, and even Dods, who is far patienter and less im——what should I say?—impetuous or impulseful, I must ask mamma which is best, began to look rather provoked. But mamma put it all right.
'Yes, Jack,' she said, the colour rushing into her face and her eyes sparkling,—'yes,herein the hut, is what the child means, and, really, I think it is an inspiration.' Mammaisquick, and she has such a beautifully ready imagination. 'I don't see why we shouldn't. It is perfectly healthy; dry and airy and quite warm except perhaps in the middle of winter, and we surely could find ways and means of making adryhouse warm. Ida, darling, I believe you have hit upon a way out of our greatest difficulty.Dosay you think so too, Jack!'
Light was gradually penetrating into papa's mind.
'Here in the hut! Yes, I wish it were possible,' he said, 'and I agree with you both so far. Itisdry and healthy, and might be made warm, but—it is so small! Ah!' and he started to his feet, hiswhole face changing, 'talking of inspirations, I'm not sure but thatIhave got one too—the———'
Here to our amazement, mamma's and mine I mean, inhisturn up jumped Dods, and, respectful or not, interrupted papa in the most barefaced way—
'Stop, stop!' he cried, 'let me say it, Dad, do, before you do. I want to have a bit of it. Is your inspiration the old parish room? The iron room they want to get rid of?Isit?—do say.'
They were both so excited it was quite funny to see them, Geordie especially, for he is much calmer than papa naturally. Papa turned to him smiling—
'You have guessed it, my boy. Yes, we might buy the room and turn it into two or three at least. It could not cost much—our own men could do it, I believe. It has doorways and windows and fireplaces too, I think, all ready, and I believe we can have it for an old song——'
'I hope I shan't be the one chosen to sing it!' exclaimed Dods, at which we all laughed, though it was not particularly witty. But we were just in the sort of humour to laugh at the least little piece of fun.
'I wish—upon my word, I wish I could see aboutit this very afternoon,' went on papa, who was now racing ahead of us all in his eagerness.
'But you can't, dear; it's Sunday, you know,' said mamma, patting his arm; 'and we have plenty to think about. There is no fear of Mr. Lloyd's selling it before to-morrow morning. Let us hear some more of your plan, Ida, dear.'
I was only too ready to tell it—I was bursting to do so, and so was Geordie. We set to work and talked—how we did talk!—papa and mamma putting in a word now and then, though they were so kind, understanding our wish to be considered the 'discoverers,' as it were, of the new home, that they really let us talk ourselves out. Then we four made a sort of progress through the rooms, papa measuring here and there with the little folding-up foot-rule he always carried in his pocket, and mamma planning where she would put such and such a piece of furniture which could be quite well spared from the almost too full rooms up at the house, not to speak of the stores—treasures they were fast becoming in our eyes now—crowded away in the big garret.
'We must go up there first thing to-morrow morning,' said mamma, 'and have a good look round.I don't believe I know half the things we have—no one does, except Hoskins.'
'You will have to take her into your confidence at once, I expect,' said papa.
'Yes, I was just thinking so,' mamma replied; 'but I shall wait till you have inquired about the iron room. She knows our troubles already,' she went on, turning to Geordie and me; 'she has known about them for some days, and she says whatever we do, or wherever we go, she will not leave us.'
'Oh, Iamso glad!' exclaimed Geordie and I in a breath. 'We thought she would be like that,' I went on; 'and I should hope she'd like the hut far, far better than going away to some horrid little poky house among strangers. And, mamma, don't you think Margery would be the best for the other servant.'
'Are we to have two?' said mamma laughing. 'Your plans are getting quite grand, Ida!'
'Of course you must have two,' said papa, 'and one of the men to look after things outside. I have an idea about that; Geordie and I will talk about it together,' and he nodded to Geordie, who looked very pleased at being consulted in this way, as if he were quite big.
'When will you ask about the parish room?' hesaid to papa. 'May I go with you when you do? Perhaps I could help about the measuring.'
For they had already settled as to where it should be placed—at one side of the hut, but a little to the back, so that it should not spoil the rather pretty look we were gradually managing to give to the front, by training creepers over the porch, and filling two or three large square tubs with bushy, hardy plants which would stand the winter, and placing them at each side of the long low windows.
'Certainly,' said papa. 'We can drive down to Kirke immediately after breakfast to-morrow morning. And if it is all right about the room, I will see the man whom, I think, Mr. Lloyd employed to put it up. He will understand the best way of partitioning it off, and our own men can work under his directions.'
So it was in the best of spirits—considering, that is to say, the real sorrow of parting with dear papa, and the real anxiety thatmusthang over us for many months to come, at least—that we set off home again, Esmé chattering about how she had wiped all the tea-cups and saucers, and how Margery had said that she could not possibly have 'got through' without her.
'That is not a very elegant expression, my little girl,' said papa. 'Don't you think you could say it some other way.'
Esmé looked rather puzzled.
'You says,' she replied, and at that papa laughed—I think he felt it was out of the frying-pan into the fire,—'you says to mamma or to Ida when we're playing croquet, "Now see if you can't get through that hoop."'
'But cups and saucers isn't croquet hoops,' said Denzil solemnly, at which we all laughed. A very small joke will go a long way when people are all happy together, and each one trying to do his best to please or amuse the others.
When I awoke on Monday morning it was with much more quietly hopeful feelings than on that sad Saturday I could have believed possible. I seemed to myself to have grown years older in the two days, which was partly nice and partly, just a very little, 'frightening.' I was proud of my idea being thought so well of, and I was very anxious to think it out more and more, so as really to help mamma and to prove that itwasa good one. So, though it was still very early, I lay quite quietly and did not mind the having a good while to waittill it was time to get up, so busied was my brain in going into all the details which I was able to think about.
'Two little beds for Esmé and me,' I began. 'Let me see which are the smallest, to take up the least room? This one is rather too big, and besides, the people who have taken the house will most likely need it left. I wonder what they will do with this room. I daresay they will use it for visitors. It is so pretty—my own dear room!' For since my last birthday I had had a room to myself, all freshly done up with light chintz curtains and covers and white furniture. But I resolutely put the thought of my regret out of my mind, and went on thinking about the hut. Esmé's cot would be big enough for her for a good while, and there was at least one old small bedstead up in the garret, and then Dods and I had saved enough money to buy one, as I said.
'We must spend it onsomethingfor the hut,' I reflected. 'Perhaps we had better ask mamma what would be the most useful.'
Then my mind went on again about the other rooms and what would be needed for them, and I had just arrived at the chests of drawers when I must have fallen asleep, for when I was awakenedby Margery and the announcement, 'Seven o'clock, Miss Ida,' I found myself dreaming that I was hanging up curtains in front of the fireplace instead of the window, and wondering how we could prevent their flying up the chimney!
After breakfast papa and Geordie set off almost immediately for Kirke, to catch Mr. Lloyd before his week's work began again, papa said. And as soon as mamma had finished her regular housekeeping business for the day, she and I went up to the garret together, to spy the land, or rather the stores. I forget if I said that we happened to be in the middle of our Easter holidays just then, which was most lucky, was it not?
Mamma and I really enjoyed ourselves up in the garret. It was all so neat, and not fusty or dusty or musty, and we came upon treasures—as often is the case if you explore a lumber-room—whose very existence even mamma had forgotten.
'I really think, Ida,' mamma began, pushing her hair out of her eyes in a pretty way she has; her hair is lovely, so curly and fuzzy, like Esmé's, though mine is dreadfully smooth! and theirs neverlooksmessy, however untidy it really may get,—'I really think we could find enough furniture here to do forall the rooms, after a fashion. And we can certainly take a few things away from downstairs without spoiling the look of the house. Two beds at least—and one or two small tables. I must have a writing-table for myself—and several of the wicker chairs in the verandah might be spared. Yes—I really don't think the furnishing will be much difficulty or expense.'
'And Doddie and I have saved sixteen and sixpence, you know, mamma,' I said. 'We meant to buy a camp bedstead for the hut, you know, whenever you would let us furnish the room that is going to be our drawing-room now. So we can still get one for Dods if you like, or anything else needed.'
'Yes, darling,' said mamma. 'That will be very nice. We can wait a little till we see what is most required.'
She spoke quite as seriously as I had done, though I knownowthat sixteen and sixpence is really not nearly as much money as I then thought it. But that is what has always been so dear about mamma; she never 'snubs' us. And many people, even really very kind people, do hurt children's feelings dreadfully sometimes without in the least meaning it. It is one of the things I mean to try always to rememberwhen I am quite grown-up myself, and it would be very wrong and ungrateful of any ofusever to forget it, for our father and mother have shown us such a good example about it.
Then mamma went off to write some letters and I to the schoolroom to practise, which had to be done, holidays or no holidays!
'I wonder if we shall have a piano at the hut,' I thought. 'I shan't very much mind if we don't,' for at that time I did not care much for music, not, at least, for my own performances. Since then I have come to 'appreciate' it a little better, though I am not at all clever about it, and I am afraid papa and mamma are rather disappointed at this. But Esmé is learning the violin and plays already so well that I hope she will make up for me.
I kept running to the window—the schoolroom overlooks the drive—every time I heard the sound of wheels, to see if it was papa and Geordie coming back, which was very silly, as of course they would have a good deal to do, measuring and seeing the carpenter and arranging it all. But I felt as if I could not settle to anything till I knew about the iron room, as it did seem as if the whole plan depended a good deal on our getting it. And whenat last I did catch sight of the dogcart coming swiftly along the avenue, my heart began to beat so fast that I had to stop once or twice to take breath on my way to the hall-door.
Mamma was there before me, as anxious as I, I do believe, though she was too sensible to show it.
But before they got to the house, we knew it was all right. Geordie stood up in the cart and waved his cap for us to understand.
'Oh, I am so glad!' I cried, and mamma smiled.
How strangely things change their—oh, dear, I can't find just the right word; yes, I have it now 'aspects'—in life sometimes. This was Monday; on Saturday only had we heardthesad news, and here we were, quite in good, almost high spirits again, about a little bettering of what, if we had foreseen it a week ago, we should certainly have thought a cloud with no silver lining!
Papa and Dods jumped down in a moment, and threw the reins to the groom.
'Is it——' I began.
'All right,' papa interrupted. 'Lloyd is delighted. Very kind and sympathising, of course, with us, but so interested in our—I should say,' with a smile tome, 'Ida's scheme. He thinks it a first-rate idea, at any rate till the autumn.'
'And he is coming up himself this afternoon,' said Geordie, 'with the drawings and measures of the room, that he got when he bought it.'
'Very good of him,' said mamma.
'And Jervis, the carpenter, is coming too,' George went on; 'and we must all go down to the hut together. Mr. Lloyd saidparticularlyIda.'
I felt myself grow red with pleasure.
'Yes,' said papa; 'we must all go and give our opinions. I am very glad to have secured the room. They were already beginning to take it down. It is a very good size really, larger than you would think; and there are two doorways, I am glad to find, and a little porch. I have two or three ideas in my head as to how to join it on and so forth, but I can go into them better on the spot.'
'Ida and I have been busy too,' said mamma. 'Really, Jack, you would scarcely believe the amount of extra furniture we have. There will be very little to buy—only, I do believe, one camp bedstead for Geordie, and perhaps a servant's one; and a few bright, warm-looking rugs.'
'Wemight buy those, mamma,' I interruptedeagerly. 'I have told mamma about our sixteen and sixpence, Doddie,' I went on, turning to George. 'I knew you wouldn't mind.'
Geordie nodded.
'Sixteen and sixpence,' repeated papa. 'How have you managed to get together all that?'
'It'shutmoney,' I replied. 'I mean it's on purpose to spend on the hut. We have other savings, too, for Christmas and birthdays—this is all for the hut.'
'And it shall be spent on the hut,' said papa, 'on something lasting—to do honour to you both.'
Wasn't that nice of him?
I remember that Monday afternoon so well. It was very interesting. Mr. Lloyd was very kind and clever about things, and the carpenter, though a rather slow, very silent man, understood his business and was quite ready to do all that was wanted. Papa was as eager as a boy, and Geordie full of ideas too. So between us we got it beautifully planned.
It was far nicer than I had dared to hope. They fixed to run a tiny passage between the side of the hut where the room was to be placed, so that the two doorways into it could both be used,—one to enter into Geordie's room, so that he could run in and out without having to go through mamma's or ours, and the other leading into mamma's, from which we could pass to ours. And the partitions made them really as good as three proper rooms, eachwith a nice window. There could be no fireplace in ours, but as it was the middle one, and therefore sure to be the warmest, that would not matter, as there were two, one at each end in the iron room. If it was very cold, mamma said Esmé and I might undress in hers, anddressin his, Geordie added, as he meant always to be up very early and light his own fire to work by, which rather amused us all, as he wasnotfamed for early rising. Indeed, I never knew such a sleepy head as he was—poor old Dods!
We felt satisfied, as we walked home, that we had done a good day's work.
'Though itcouldn'thave been managed without the iron room,' Geordie and I agreed.
And a day or two later we felt still more settled and pleased when mamma told us that Hoskins and Margery were coming with us. Hoskins was just a little melancholy about it all, not a bit for herself, I do believe, but because she thought it would be 'such a change, so different' for mamma and us.
She cheered up however when we reminded her how much nicer it would be than a poky little house in a back street at Kirke, or, worse still, away in some other place altogether, among strangers. And when she said something about the cold, incase we stayed at the hut through the winter, Geordie said we could afford plenty of fires as we should have no rent to pay, and thathewas going to be 'stoker' for the whole family.
'You won't need to look after any fire but your own, Master George,' said she, 'and not that, unless it amuses you. Margery is not a lazy girl—I would not own her for my niece if she was. And besides that, there will be Barnes to help to carry in the coal.'
Barnes was one of the under-gardeners. He lived with his father and mother at the Lodge, but he had never had anything to do with the house, so I was surprised at what Hoskins said.
'Oh yes,' George explained, looking very business-like and nodding in a way he had, 'that is one of the things papa and I have settled about. We are rigging up a room for Barnes, much nearer than the Lodge—the old woodman's hut within a stone's throw ofourhut, Ida, so that a whistle would bring him in a moment. He will still live at the Lodge for eating, you see, but he will come round first thing and last thing. He's as proud as a peacock; he thinks he's going to be a kind of Robinson Crusoe; it will be quite a nice little room; there is even afireplace in it. He says he won't need coals; there's such lots of brushwood about.'
'Ihave been thinking of that,' I said eagerly. 'It would seem much more in keeping to burn brushwood than commonplace coals——'
'Except in my kitchen, if you please, Miss Ida,' put in Hoskins.
'And better still than brushwood,' I went on, taking no notice of Hoskins's 'kitchen,'—I would much rather have had a gypsy fire with a pot hanging on three iron rods, the way gypsies do, or are supposed to do,—'better than brushwood, fir cones. They do smell so delicious when they are burning. We might make a great heap of them before next winter. It would give the children something to do when they are playing in the wood.'
ORDERING DENZIL ABOUT AS USUAL.
They—the two little ones—were of course in tremendous spirits about the whole thing,—such spirits that they could not even look sad for very long when at last—about three weeks after the days I have just been describing—the sorrowful morning arrived on which dear papa had to leave us. Esmé cried loudly, as was her way; Denzil, more silently and solemnly, as was his; but an hour or two afterwards we heard the little butterflylaughing outside in the garden and ordering Denzil about as usual.
'Never mind,' said mamma, glancing up from the lists of all sorts of things she was already busy at and reading what was in my mind, 'rather let us be glad that the child does not realise it. She is very young; it does not mean that she is heartless,' and mamma herself choked down her tears and turned again to her writing-table.
I too had done my best not to cry, though it wasverydifficult. I think George and I 'realised' it all—the long, lonely voyage for papa; the risks at sea which are always there; the dangers for his health, for the climate was a bad one, and it was not the safest season by any means. All these, and then the possibility of great disappointment when he got there—of finding that, after all, the discovery of things going wrong had come too late to put them right, and of all that would follow this—the leaving our dear, dear home, not for a few months, or even a year, but foralways.
It would not do even to think of it. And I had promised papa to be brave and cheerful.
By this time I must explain that the Hut—from now I must write it with a capital, as mamma didin her letters: 'The Hut, Eastercove' looked quite grand, we thought—was ready for us to move into. Our tenants were expected at the house in a week or ten days, and we were now to leave it as soon as we could.
A great part of the arranging, carting down furniture, and so on had been done, but it had been thought better to put off our actually taking up our quarters in our quaint new home till after papa had gone.Hesaid it would have worried him rather if we had left sooner, but I know the truth was, that he thought the having to be very busy, in a bustle in fact, at once on his going, would be the best for us all—mamma especially.
And a bustle it was, though things had been hurried on wonderfully fast. The fixing up of the iron room was quite complete and the partitions were already in their places, the furniture roughly in the rooms too. But as everybody who has ever moved from one house to another knows, there were stillheapsto be done, and seen to by ourselves, which no work-people could do properly. And besides the arranging at the Hut of course, there was a great deal for mamma to settle at the house, so as to leave everything nice for the people who were coming.
That afternoon, I remember, the afternoon of the day papa left, we were at the Hut till dark, working as hard as we could, even the little ones helping, by running messages and fetching and carrying. And by the time we went home we were very tired and beginning to find it very difficult to look on the bright side of things.
'I don't believe it will ever be really comfortable for mamma,' said Geordie in the growly tone he used when he was anxious or unhappy. 'It's just a horrid business altogether. I don't believe papa will be able to get things right, out at that old hole of a place, and even if he doesn't get ill, as he very likely will, he'll only come home to leave it for good—I mean we'll have to sell Eastercove. I'm almost sorry we did not go away now at once and get it over.'
I glanced before us. Mamma was some little way in front—I could just see her dimly, for it was dusk, with Denzil and Esmé, one on each side; Esmé walking along soberly for once, and I caught snatches of mamma's voice coming back to us, for there was a light, though rather chilly evening breeze, blowing our way. I could hear that she was talking brightly to the children; no doubt it was not easy for her to do so.
'Listen, Geordie,' I said, nodding forwards, so to say, towards mamma.
And he understood, though he did not say anything just at once.
'It is a good thing,' I went on, after a moment's silence, 'that the wind is not the other way. I would not like her to hear you talking like that, within a few hours of papa's going.'
It was not often—very, very seldom indeed—that I felt it my place to blame good old Dods; and honestly, I don't think I did it or meant it in any 'superior' way. I am sure I did not, for the words had scarcely passed my lips before they seemed to me to have been unkind. Geordie was tired; he had been working very hard the last few days, and even a strong boy may feel out of heart when he is tired.
'I don't know whatIshould do, not to speak of mamma,' I went on, 'if you got gloomy about things. We all depend on you so,' and for a moment or two I really felt as if I must begin to cry!
Then something crept round my neck, and I knew it was all right again. The something was Geordie's arm, and it gave me a little hug, not the most comfortable thing in the world when you areout walking, and it tilts up your hat, but of course I did not mind.
'Yes, Ida,' he said, 'it's very babyish and cowardly of me, and I'm very sorry. I won't be like that again, I promise you.'
Then I gave him a sort of a hug in return, and we hurried on a little, not to leave mamma with the children dragging on at each side of her, as they are apt to do when they are tired. We none of us spoke much the rest of the way home, but Geordie said one or two little things about how comfortable the Hut was getting to look and so on, whichIunderstood, and which prevented poor mamma's suspecting that he was at all in low spirits.
When people reallytryto do right, I think outside things often come to help them. That very evening we were cheered and amused by a letter which had arrived by the second post while we were all out—a quite unexpected letter.
It was from a cousin of ours, a girl, though a grown-up one, whom we were very fond of. She wasalmostlike a big sister, and her name was Theresa. She was generally called 'Taisy' for short. I have not spoken of her before; but, indeed, when I come to think of it I have not spoken of any of our relations,I have been so entirely taken up with the Hut. We had however noneverynear. Taisy was almost the nearest. She lived with her grandmother, who was papa's aunt, so Taisy was really only second cousin to us children.
She was now about seventeen, and she was an orphan. Many people like her would have been spoilt, for old Aunt Emmeline adored her and gave her nearly everything she could possibly want. But Taisy wasn't a bit spoilt.
She often came to stay with us, and one of the smaller parts of our big trouble was that we could not look forward to having herthisyear, at any rate. Papa had written to Lady Emmeline to tell her of what had happened; she was one of the few whom he felt he must write to about it, and it was partly because of Taisy's not coming—I mean our not being able to have her—that he did so.
And he had had a very kind letter back from his aunt. She wished she could help him, but though she was comfortably off, her money was what they call 'tied up,' somehow, and Taisy would have none ofherstill she was twenty-one. Besides, papa was not the sort of man to take or expect help, while he was strong and active and could work for us himself,and it was the kind of trouble in which a little help would really have been no use—a large fortune was at stake.
Taisy had not written; she had only sent loving messages to us all, and something about that 'by hook or by crook' she must see us before the summer was over.
But the letter to mamma which was waiting for us roused our curiosity, and kept us quite bright and interested all that evening, in wondering what shecouldmean.
'Ever since I heard from grandmamma of your worries, dear auntie,' she wrote,—I must explain that Taisy always called papa and mamma uncle and aunt, though they were really only cousins,-'I have been thinking and thinking about how I could still manage to pay you a visit. I really cannot face the idea of all the long summer without seeing you.'
'Itisvery dull for her at Longfields,' said mamma, interrupting herself in the reading aloud the letter to us. 'Aunt Emmeline never has cared much to have visitors, though she is a wonderfully strong and active old lady. And now that Taisy is givingup regular lessons, it will be still duller. But it can't be helped, I suppose. Yet I do wonder what the child has in her head,' and she went on reading.
'And, once I was with you, I amsureI would not be any trouble, if only you had room for me. You don't know what a help I should be! So—don't be surprised if you see a balloon coming down towards the Hut one day, and me getting out of it. I have not got my plan quite ready yet, and I am not going to say anything to Granny about it till it is all cut and dried and ready to be stacked!—though, as she always lets me do whatever I want, I am not much afraid of her making any difficulties. Her old friend, Miss Merry, will be coming over from Ireland as usual, I suppose, and I am sure I should only be in the way, especially as I have no governess now. My best love to you all, and I do hope dear Uncle Jack will have a nice voyage and come back feeling quite happy again.—Your loving
'And, once I was with you, I amsureI would not be any trouble, if only you had room for me. You don't know what a help I should be! So—don't be surprised if you see a balloon coming down towards the Hut one day, and me getting out of it. I have not got my plan quite ready yet, and I am not going to say anything to Granny about it till it is all cut and dried and ready to be stacked!—though, as she always lets me do whatever I want, I am not much afraid of her making any difficulties. Her old friend, Miss Merry, will be coming over from Ireland as usual, I suppose, and I am sure I should only be in the way, especially as I have no governess now. My best love to you all, and I do hope dear Uncle Jack will have a nice voyage and come back feeling quite happy again.—Your loving
Taisy.'
'Whatcanshe mean?' said Geordie, looking up with a puzzled face.
'Of course about a balloon is quite a joke, isn't it?' I said, though I spoke rather doubtfully, not knowing much about balloons!
'Of course,' said Geordie, in a superior tone. 'Besides, there is no difficulty about her getting to us. The railway and the roads are not blocked up because of our troubles. The thing is, that there is nowhere to put her if she did come.'
'No,' I agreed, running over the rooms at the Hut in my mind; 'we are quite closely enough packed as it is. There isn't any possible corner for another bed even.'
'Unless,' said Geordie slowly,—'unless you would let me really camp out, mamma? I could rig up a little tent, or—I wouldn't much mind sleeping in Barnes's hut?'
'No, no,' mamma replied decidedly. 'I could not allow anything of the kind. Our living at the Hut is only possible because it isnotto be like rough camping out, but as healthy and "civilised" as if we were in a house. So put that out of your head, my dear boy. I could not risk your catching cold, or anything of that sort. Remember, I feel responsible to your father inmyway for you all, just as you two big ones feel so for me,' she added with one of her own dear smiles.
'And then, Dods,' I said, 'it wouldn't be safe—I knowIwouldn't feel safe—without having youactually in the house, even though Barnes's hut is so near.'
I think Geordie liked my saying that. But I really meant it.
So we went on wondering and puzzling as to what Taisy meant. It was quite an amusement to us that first evening of papa's being away. And it was worth wondering about, for Taisy was a very clever girl—what is called 'practical.'
'If she could come and be with us, I'm sure she would be a great help,' I thought. 'She is so full of nice ideas and funny ones too, and she never has headaches or neuralgia or horrid things like that. And yet she issokind—I remember that time I sprained my ankle. She was so good.'
The next few days were so busy, however, that all thought even of Taisy and her balloon went out of our heads. I only remember packings and unpackings and arranging and rearrangings, all in a jumble together, ending, nevertheless, in a great deal of satisfaction. The afternoon we went to the Hut 'for good,' it really looked nice enough for us to feel it, for the time, more 'home' than the big house, which, on the surface, seemed rather upset still, though in reality it was nearly ready for the tenants,having gone through a magnificent spring cleaning. But our own little belongings were absent, and such of the rooms as were quite in order, to our eyes looked bare and unfamiliar, so that we were not sorry to be actually settled at the Hut.
The evenings were still a little chilly, which I, for one, did not regret, as it gave an excuse for nice bright fires in the sitting-rooms and mamma's bedroom. And the children had already picked up a good lot of fir cones, so that the pleasant scent of the trees seemed to be inside as well as out of doors.
'Itiscosy, isn't it, mamma?' I said, as we stood for a minute or two in what was now the little drawing-room; 'and oh,aren'tyou glad not to be starting on a railway journey to some strange place, or even driving to that little house at Kirke which you told me about as the best we could have got?'
'Yes, indeed, darling,' mamma replied. 'And I amsoglad to be able to date my first letter to papa from the Hut. I must make time to write to him to-morrow morning; it will just catch the mail.'
'And to-night,' I went on, 'you must rest. There isn't really very much more to do, is there? Not at least anything that we need hurry about.'
'No,' said mamma, looking round. But she spokerather doubtfully, and I felt that she was longing to get everything into perfectly 'apple-pie order,' though what that means I have never been able to understand, for as far as we know them nowadays, apple-pies are rather untidy-looking! 'There is very little now for me to see to at—home—at the house,' she went on. 'I am not going there at all for a day or two, and then just to give a look round and pay the wages owing till the Trevors come.'
The Trevors were our tenants—a mother and an invalid son, and a not-very-young daughter—and several of our servants were staying on with them, which we were very glad of.
'And I want,' mamma began again, 'to get things started here regularly. Your lessons, and the little ones' too, and—and—everything. Our own clothes will take some time to arrange, and I must not expect Hoskins to be everywhere at once.
'I will dolots, mamma,' I said. 'You don't know what I can do when I regularly set-to, and I promise you I won't open a story-book till the boxes are unpacked and arranged,' though I gave a little silent sigh as I said this. There seemed such heaps to unpack, for you see we had had to bring all our winter things with us too, and I was sensible enoughto know that there must now be a lot of planning how to make frocks and coats and things last, that hitherto we should have given away without a second thought to those whom they might be of use to. And in my secret heart I was trembling a little at the idea that perhaps one of the things I should have to 'set-to' at would be sewing—above all, mending!
'For of course, as mamma says,' I reflected, 'we can't expect Hoskins to doeverything! And I knew it was a case of just spending the very least we could—without risking health or necessary comforts—till papa came home again, or at least till he gotsomeidea of what the future was likely to be.
But for the moment it was worse than foolish to go on looking forward, when thepresentwas pretty clearly to be seen. And just then Esmé came dancing in to tell us that tea was ready in the dining-room.
'Quite ready and getting cold. So come quick,' she said.
I shall never forget the first morning's awaking in the Hut. Well, as I knew it, it seemed as if I had not till then ever been there before. I do not mean so much the actual waking; that of course is always a little confusing, even if only in a differentroomfrom the one you are used to, and I was particularly accustomed to my own room at Eastercove, as we were not people who went away very much. We loved home too well for that.
No, though I rubbed my eyes and stared about me and wondered why the window had changed its place, I soon remembered where I was, especially when I caught sight of Esmé's little bed beside mine, and of Esmé's pink cheeks and bright hair as she lay fast asleep still, looking like a comfortable doll.
I was thinking rather of the feelings I had whenI was dressed—I dressed very quickly, despising any warm water in my bath for once, and moved about very quietly, so as not to waken Esmé and thereby vex Hoskins the very first morning—and made my way out to the porch and stood there gazing about me.
It was not so very early after all—half-past seven by mamma's little clock in the drawing-room, and I heard the servants working busily in the kitchen and dining-room, though there was no sound from poor old Geordie's corner, in spite of his overnight intentions of being up by six!
But outside it seemed very, very early. It was so absolutelyalone—so strangely far from any sight or sound of common human life, except for just one little thing—a tiny white sail, far, far away on the horizon—a mere speck it seemed. And below where I stood,—I think I have said that the hut was on a sort of 'plateau,—' though at some little distance, came the sound of the waves, lapping in softly, for it was a calm day, and now and then the flash of a gull as it flew past, or the faint, peculiar cry of some other sea-bird or coast-bird nearer inland. For the spot was so quiet and seemingly isolated that rather wild, shy birds were not afraid of visiting it, even whenthere was no stormy weather or signs of such out at sea.
And behind me were our dear pine woods, and the feeling of the squirrels and the home birds all busy and happy in the coming of the spring, though any sounds from there were very vague and soft.
At first I did not know what it all reminded me of. Something out of my own experiences I knew, but I had to think for a minute or two before it came back to my mind. And then I remembered that it was a story in a French book that mamma had read to us, partly in French, which Geordie and I knew fairly well, and partly translating as she read. It was calledLes Ailes de Courage, by some great French author, who wrote it, I think, for his or her grandchildren, and it is almost the most interesting and strangest story I ever heard—about a boy who lived quite, quite alone in a cave by the seashore, and got to know all the wild creatures and their habits in the most wonderful way, so that they came to trust him as if he was one of themselves. I cannot give any right idea of the story; I doubt if any one could, but I wish you—if 'you' ever come to exist—would all read it.
Just as I was standing there, pleased to haveremembered the association in my mind, I felt a hand slipped gently round my neck. It was not one of Geordie's 'hugs,' and I looked up in surprise. It was mamma.
'How quietly you came,' I said; 'and oh, mamma,doesn'tit remind you ofLes Ailes de Courage?'
'Yes,' she replied, 'I know exactly what you mean.'
And then we stood perfectly still and silent for a moment or two, taking it all in, more and more, till averytiny sigh from mamma reminded me of something else—that dear papa was on that same great sea that we were gazing at—perhaps standing on the deck of the steamer and thinking of us—butsofar away already!
'It is chilly,' said mamma, 'and we must not begin our life here by catching cold. We had better go in, dear. I think it is going to be a lovely day, but in the meantime I hope Hoskins has given us a fire in the dining-room.'
Yes—a nice bright little fire was crackling away merrily, a handful or two of the children's cones on the top. And the room looked quite cosy and tidy, as Margery had finished dusting and so on, in here, and was now busy at the other side.
'I will go and see how Esmé is getting on,' saidmamma. 'She had had her bath before I came out, but there may be difficulties with her hair. And you might hurry up the boys, Ida, for I have promised Hoskins to be very punctual, and breakfast will be ready by eight.'
It was a good thing I did go to hurry up the boys—they were both fast asleep! Geordie looked dreadfully ashamed when I at last managed to get him really awake, and Denzil almost began to cry. He had planned with Esmé, he said, to have a run down to the sands before breakfast, and Hoskins knew and had promised them a slice of bread and butter and a drink of milk.
'Did she not wake you then?' I asked. 'She woke Esmé at seven, but I was already up.'
Geordie could not remember if he had been awakened or not. Denzil thought Margery had come in and said something about 'seven o'clock,' but it was all mixed up with a wonderful dream that he wanted me to stay to listen to, about a balloon (he had heard us talking about Taisy's balloon) with long cords hanging from it, like those in the grandfather's clock in the hall 'at home,' for you to climb up and down by, as if they were rope-ladders.
'You must have gone to sleep again and dreamtit through the word "o'clock" getting into your brain,' I said, whereupon I felt as if I had got out of the frying-pan into the fire, for instead of telling the rest of his dream, Denzil now wanted to know exactly what I meant, and what his brain was 'like,' and how a word could get into it—was it a box in his head, and his ears the doors, etc., etc.—Denzil had a dreadfully 'inquiring mind,' in those days—till I really had to cut him short and fly.
'You will neither of you be ready for breakfast, as it is,' I said; 'and if you are not quick you will have none at all, or at least quite cold.'
I nearly ran against the coffee, which Hoskins was just carrying in, as I got to the dining-room door, which would not have been a happy beginning. But I pulled up just in time, and took in good part Hoskins's reminder that it wouldn't do to rush about as if we were in the wide passages at home. Then she went on to tell me what it all made her think of, she was so glad to have remembered.
'It is just like aship, Miss Ida. I have never been at sea, but I spent a day or two once on board one of the big steamers at Southampton that a cousin of my mother's is stewardess of. Yes, it's that that's been running in my head.'
'It can't have been averybig one, then,' I said, rather pertly, I am afraid. But Hoskins did not see the joke.
'Oh, but it was, Miss Ida,' she went on, after she had placed the coffee-pot in safety. 'The big rooms, saloons, as they call them, were really beautiful, but the passages quite narrow, and the kitchens and pantries so small, you'd wonder they do do any washing-up in them, let alone cooking. Not an inch of space lost, you may say. And as to how they manage in rough weather when everything's atop of the other, it's just wonderful, not that I've any wish to see for myself; the sea's all very well to be beside of, but as for goingonit,' and Hoskins shook her head, but said no more. For mamma just then came into the room, and the kind-hearted woman did not want to remind her whowason the sea at the present moment.
We three—mamma and Esmé and I—had made some way with our breakfast before the two lazy ones joined us, Geordie rather shy and ashamed; Denzil eager to explain the whole story of his dream, and to tease poor mamma about his brain and how it was made and what it was like, till I did wish I had not mentioned its existence to him.
I don't remember anything very particularlyinteresting in the course of the first few days at the Hut, or rather perhaps,everythingwas so interesting that no one thing stands out very much in my memory or in my diary. I kept a diary in those days, as I daresay you who read this have suspected, otherwise I could not have been so exact about details, though it needs no diary to remind myself of thefeelingof it all, of the curious charm of the half gypsy life. Not that it really was nearly as 'gypsy' as we would have liked it to be, or as wethoughtwe would have liked it to be! It was really so comfortable, and we were all so pleased with our own efforts to make it so, and their success, that by the end of a week or ten days we began to long for some adventures.
'A storm,' said Geordie one day,—'a storm at sea. How would that do? Not a very bad one of course, and———'
'No,' I said decidedly, frowning at him to remind him about papa's being on the sea,—'no, that wouldn't do at all. Besides, there never are storms at this time of year. It's past the bad time. No, something more like real gypsies camping near us, and coming to ask us to lend them things, and telling our fortunes.'
But at this ideamammashook her head.
'No, thank you,' she said, though she smiled; 'I have no wish for any such neighbours. Besides, Ida, you forget that though we are living in a hut, we are still at home on our own ground, and certainly gypsies have never been allowed to camp inside the lodge gates.'
'They never come nearer than Kirke Common now,' said George. 'They have been frightened of Eastercove, Barnes says, ever since papa was made a magistrate.'
'I think we must be content if we want adventures,' said mamma, 'with reading some aloud. I have got one or two nice books that none of you know, and I think it would be a very good plan to read aloud in the evenings.'
We were not very eager about it. We liked very much to be read to, but we were not fond of being the readers, and though mamma read aloud beautifully, I knew it was not right to let it all fall upon her, as her voice was not very strong.
'It isn't as if Taisy were here, to take turns with you, mamma,' I said, 'as she always does.'
'After this week,' said mamma, 'you will not want any more excitement, for we must really arrangeabout your lessons, Ida—yours and the little ones. And Geordie, of course, will begin again regularly with Mr. Lloyd, now that we are settled.'
Our daily governess was given up. She was not now quite 'advanced' enough for me, and to have her for Denzil and Esmé alone was very expensive, so it had been fixed that I was to work with mamma; and, on the other hand, be myself teacher to the little ones for the time. Mamma had thought she would have so much less to do, with papa away, and no calls to pay, or going out to dinners and luncheons, all of which she had given up for the time. But it did not look very like it so far—I mean not very like her 'having more time' than at the big house, for there were always things turning up for her to do, and then she wrote enormously long letters to papa every week. And there were things about the place, the whole property, which she had to be consulted about now he was away.