Boys and I: A Child's Story for Children Page 4

  CHAPTER IV.

  THE AIR-GARDEN.

  "But children, good though they may be, Must cry sometimes when they are sad."

  It was not quite so bad the next morning. That is one good thing ofbeing a child, I suppose--at least mother says so--things never arequite so bad the next morning!

  We all slept very soundly; we had three nice little beds in one ratherbig room, which we thought a very good plan; and the first thing thatwoke me was feeling something bump down on the top of me all of asudden. It was Racey. He looked quite bright and rosy, all his tirednessgone away; and then you know he was really such a _very_ littleboy--only five--that he could not be expected to remember very longabout poor mother going away and all our trouble.

  "Audrey," he said, in what he meant to be a whisper, but it was a veryloud one, "Audrey, I don't want to wake Tom. Poor Tom's so tired.Audrey, let me get in 'aside you."

  He had clambered out of his bed and into mine somehow; and though it wasagainst rules to get into each other's beds--mother had had to make therule because Tom and I got in the way of waking each other so dreadfullyearly to tell stories--I could not this first morning refuse to let thepoor little thing get in under the nice warm clothes to be cuddled.

  "Oh dear, Racey, what cold little toes you've got," I said. "You haven'tbeen running about without your slippers on, surely?"

  "Just for a minute; don't tell Pierson," said Racey. "I wanted to lookout of the window. Audrey, this is such a funny place--there's no treesand no garden--and lots and lots of windows. Is all the windows UncleGeoff's?"

  "Oh, no--there are lots of other people's houses here," I said. Poorlittle Racey had never been in a town before. "In London all the housesare put close together. You see, Racey, there are such a lot of peoplein London there wouldn't be room for all the houses they need if eachhad a garden."

  "But some peoples has little gardens--_air_ gardens," said Raceyeagerly. "There's one I sawed out of the window."

  "_Air_ gardens! What do you mean, Racey?" I said.

  "High up--up in the air," he explained. "Sticking up all of theirselvesin the air."

  "Oh, I know what you mean--you mean a little glass place for flowers," Isaid. "I've seen those--once I was in London before with mother, in acab, when we were coming from Tonbridge Wells."

  "_Were_ you?" said Racey, greatly impressed. "Was Tom?"

  "No, not Tom--only me. When we're dressed, Racey, I'd like to look outof the window at the air garden."

  "Come _now_," said Racey. But I firmly refused to get out of bed tillPierson came, as it was one of the things mother had particularly toldme not to do--we had so often caught cold with running about like that.And it was a good thing we didn't, for just then Pierson came into theroom looking rather cross, and if she had found us running about withoutour slippers on she'd have been crosser still.

  "It's time to get up, Miss Audrey," she said in a melancholy tone,"past half-past-eight; though I'm sure no one would think so by thelight. I hope you've had a good night--but--" as she suddenly caughtsight of my little visitor, "whatever's Master Racey doing in your bed?"

  Racey ducked down under the clothes to avoid being caught, and Piersonwas getting still crosser, when fortunately a diversion of her thoughtswas caused by Tom, who just then awoke.

  "Oh dear!" he said with a great sigh, "oh dear! Will the ship have goneyet?"

  He was hardly awake, but he sat up in bed, and his big sad eyes seemedto be looking about for something they could not find. Then with anothersigh he lay down again. "I was dreaming," he said, "that we got a letterto say we were to go in the train again to South--South--that placewhere the ship goes from, and that Uncle Geoff was the man on theengine, and he kept calling to us to be quick or the ship would be gone.Oh dear, I wish it had been true!"

  Poor Tom! Pierson forgot her crossness in trying to comfort him. Of usall I'm sure he was her favourite, even though he was very mischievoussometimes. We all went on talking about Tom's dream till Pierson hadgot back into quite a good temper--a good temper to _us_, that is tosay, for she at last confided to us what had made her so cross. She"couldn't abide that Mrs. Partridge," that was the burden of her song."Stupid, fussy old thing," she called her, "going on about Master Tom'seyes last night. I dare say I shouldn't say so to you, Miss Audrey, butI can't help owning I _was_ glad you spoke up to her as you did. She'sthat tiresome and interfering,--as if I didn't know my own work! I'll besorry to leave you, my dears, when the time comes, which it will onlytoo soon; but I can't say that there'd be peace for long if that stupidold woman was to keep on meddling."

  We were all full of sympathy for Pierson, and indignant with Mrs.Partridge.

  "Never mind, Pierson," we said, "we won't take any notice of her. We'lljust do what _you_ tell us."

  So breakfast was eaten in the most friendly spirit, and after breakfast,our hands and faces being again washed, and our hair receiving a secondsmooth, we were taken down-stairs to be inspected by Uncle Geoff.

  He was busy writing in a small room behind the dining-room--a rathergloomy, but not uncomfortable little room. A fire was of courseburning brightly in the grate, but for a minute or two we all threestood near the door, not venturing further in, for though Uncle Geoffhad replied "come in" to Pierson's tap, he did not at once look up whenwe made our appearance, but went on finishing his letter. Some morningshe had to go out very early, but this was not one of them; but insteadof going out, he had a great many very particular letters to write, andit was difficult for him to take his mind off them even for a minute. Iunderstand that now, but I did not then; and I was rather offended thatthe boys and I should be left standing there without his taking anynotice. Racey kept tight hold of my hand, and Tom looked up at me with asurprised, puzzled expression in his eyes. I didn't so much mind formyself, but I felt very sorry for the boys. I was not at all a shychild, as I have told you, and I had rather a sharp temper in some ways;so after fidgeting for a moment or two I said suddenly--

  'May we come near the fire, if you please?']

  "May we come near the fire, if you please; or if you don't want us maywe go back to the nursery?"

  For an instant still Uncle Geoff took no notice. Then he laid down hispen and looked at us--at me in particular.

  "What did you say, my little lady?"

  I got more angry. It seemed to me that he was making fun of me, and thatwas a thing I never could endure. But I did not show that I was angry. Ithink my face got red, but that was all, and I said again quietly, butnot in a very nice tone, I dare say--

  "I wanted to know if we might go back to the nursery if you don't wantus, or at least if we might come near the fire. It isn't for me, it isfor the boys. Mother doesn't like them to stand in a draught, andthere's a great draught here."

  "Dear me, dear me, I beg your pardon," said Uncle Geoff, with a comicalsmile. "Come near the fire by all means. My niece and nephews are notaccustomed to be kept waiting, I see."

  He pulled forward a big arm-chair to the fire as he spoke, and liftingRacey up in his arms, popped him down in one corner of it. He wasturning back for Tom, but Tom glanced up at me again from under hiseyelids in the funny half-shy way he did when he was not sure of anyone. I took his hand and led him forward to the fire.

  "Tom is quite big," I said. "He's never counted like a baby."

  Again Uncle Geoff looked at me with his comical smile. I felt my faceget red again. I am ashamed to say that I was beginning to take quite adislike to Uncle Geoff.

  "He's just as horrid as Mrs. Partridge," I said to myself. "I'm suremother wouldn't have left us here if she had known how they were goingto go on."

  But aloud I said nothing.

  Uncle Geoff himself sat down on the big arm-chair, and took Racey on hisknee.

  "So you're to be the boys' little mother--eh, Audrey?" he began. "It's agreat responsibility, isn't it? You'll have a good deal to do to teach_me_ my duty too, won't you?"

  I did not answer, but I'm afraid I did not look very ami
able. UncleGeoff, however, took no notice. He drew Tom gently forward, and as Tomdid not pull back at all, I let go his hand. Uncle Geoff made him standbetween his knees, and, placing a hand on each of his shoulders, lookedrather earnestly into his eyes. Tom fidgeted a little--he stood first onone leg, and then on the other, and glanced round at me shyly; but stillhe did not seem to mind it.

  "He's his mother's boy," said Uncle Geoff, after a minute or two'ssilence. "He has her pretty eyes."

  That was a lucky remark. After all, Uncle Geoff must be much nicer thanMrs. Partridge, I decided, and I drew a little nearer. Uncle Geofflooked up at me.

  "And you, Audrey?" he went on. "No, you're not like your mother."

  "I'm not nearly as pretty," I said.

  "You're more like your father," he continued, without noticing myremark. "And Racey--who is he like? Where did you get that white skin,and that golden--not to say red--hair, sir?" he said, laughing. "Whom_is_ he like?"

  "Like hisself," said Tom, smiling.

  "Yes, that is quite certain," said Uncle Geoff. "And now, my friends,having looked you all over, so that for the future I shall know which iswhich, tell me how you are going to amuse yourselves to-day?"

  We looked at each other--that is to say, the boys looked at me and I atthem, but we did not know what to say.

  "It is too bad a day for you to go out, I fear," continued Uncle Geoff,glancing up at the window from which only other houses' windows and avery dull bit of gray sky were to be seen. "It's not often we havebright days at this time of year in London. But we must try to make youhappy in the house. Partridge will get you anything you want. Did yourmother tell you about the tutor?"

  "Yes, Uncle Geoff," I said, meekly enough, but feeling rather depressed.I did not at all like being referred to _Partridge_ for anything wewanted. "Mother told us we were to have lessons every day from agentleman. She said it would be better than a lady, because Tom isgetting so big."

  "Of course; and by next year he'll be going to school, perhaps."

  "But that won't be till after papa and mother come home," I saidhastily. "Mother never said anything about that--and of course they'llbe home long before next year," I continued, a misgiving darting throughme which I refused to listen to.

  Uncle Geoff looked a little troubled, but he just nodded his head.

  "Oh, of course, there's lots of time to think of Tom's going to school,"he said, as he rose from his chair. "I must be off, I fear," he wenton. "You know I am a dreadfully busy person, children, and I shall notbe able to see as much of you as I should like. But with Partridge, andyour tutor, and your nurse--by the by, I must not forget about herhaving to leave before long. You know about that--your mother told meyou did?"

  "Yes," I replied. "Pierson is to be married on the tenth of next month.But--" I hesitated.

  "But what?" said Uncle Geoff.

  "I wish we needn't have a nurse. I'm _sure_ I could dress and bath theboys, and we'd be so happy without a nurse."

  Uncle Geoff laughed heartily at this, and I felt very vexed with himagain. And just then unfortunately a knock came at the door, and inanswer to Uncle Geoff's "Come in," Mrs. Partridge made her appearancesmiling and curtesying in a way that made me feel very angry.

  "Good morning, Partridge," said Uncle Geoff; "here I am surrounded withmy new family, you see."

  "Yes, sir, to be sure, and I hope they are very good young ladies andgentlemen, and won't trouble their kind uncle more than they can help,"said Mrs. Partridge. Uncle Geoff was used, I suppose, to her prim way ofspeaking, for he seemed to take no notice of it. He began buttoning hisgreat-coat before the fire.

  "You'll look after them, and make them happy, Partridge," said he as heturned to the door.

  "Of _course_, sir," she replied. And then in a lower voice she added asshe followed him out of the room, "I sha'n't be sorry, sir, whenPierson, the nurse, goes. She's so very interfering like."

  "Ah well, well, it's only for a very short time, and then we must lookout for some suitable person. My little niece, by the by, has beenbegging me not to get a nurse at all; she says she's sure she could washand dress the boys herself--what do you think of that, Partridge?"

  "It's all that Pierson, sir," said Partridge; "it's all jealousy ofanother coming after her, you may be sure. Not but that,"--by this timeUncle Geoff and the old servant were out in the hall, but my ears arevery sharp, and one can always catch one's own name more quickly thananything else--"not but that Miss Audrey's far too up-spoken for herage. She has been spoilt by her mother very likely--the only girl."

  "Perhaps," said Uncle Geoff. "Her father did tell me she was rather anodd little girl--a queer temper if taken the wrong way. But we must doour best with them, poor little things. Miss Audrey seems very fond ofher brothers, any way."

  Partridge said nothing more aloud, but it seemed to me I caught amurmured "far too fond of managing and ordering them about for her age,"and I boiled with indignation, all the deeper that I was determined notto show it. I was angry with Mrs. Partridge most of all, of course, andangry with Uncle Geoff. I was not angry with papa-- I did not mind hishaving told Uncle Geoff that I had a queer temper, for I knew it wastrue, and I did not mind Uncle Geoff knowing it; but I was horriblyangry at his talking me over with Partridge, and making fun of what Ihad said, and most determined that she should not interfere with eitherme or the boys. So when we went up to the nursery again I called mylittle brothers to me.

  "Tom and Racey," I said, "Mrs. Partridge is a cross, unkind old woman.You mustn't mind what she says--you must only do what I tell you. Mothertold me I was to take care of you, and she would like you to do what Isay--you will, won't you?"

  "Yes, of course," said both the boys. "Of course we love you, Audrey,and we don't love that cross old thing one bit." "But," pursued Tom,looking rather puzzled, "aren't we to do what Uncle Geoff says?"

  "And Pierson?" said Racey.

  "Pierson's soon going away. It doesn't matter for her," I said.

  "But Uncle Geoff?" repeated Tom, returning to the charge. "Don't youlike him, Audrey?" he continued half timidly, as if afraid of having adifferent opinion from mine. "I think he's nice."

  "Oh, I dare say he's nice," said I. "Besides, any way, he's our uncle,whether he's nice or not. But we sha'n't see him often--he's so busy,you know. It doesn't matter for him. It's only that I want you always tocount me first--like as if I was instead of mother, you know. That'swhat mother wants."

  "Yes, dear Audrey, _dear_ Audrey," cried both boys at once. And thenthey put their arms round my neck, and hugged me so that we all threerolled on the floor, and Pierson, coming in just then, would no doubthave scolded us, but that her mind was too full of Mrs. Partridge andher offences to take in anything else.

  "It isn't _her_ house," she said, "and I'm sure to hear how she goes onany one might think it was."

  "What does she say, Pierson?" I asked, coming close to Pierson, andlooking up in her face.

  "Oh, nonsense--grumbling about what an upset it's been in the house,children coming; having to take down the bed in this room, and get newlittle ones, and all that sort of talk. And worry-worrying at me to seethat you don't scratch the walls, or go up and down-stairs with dirtyboots on, and all such nonsense. And after all, what could be morenatural than your coming here? Dr. Gower is own brother to your papa,and no one else belonging to him. But I'm sure if it wasn't for whatHarding would say," Harding was Pierson's going-to-be husband, "and thatI really _durstn't_ put him off again, I'd--I'd--I really don't knowwhat I'd do."

  "What would you do? Do tell me, Pierson," I entreated.

  "I don't know, Miss Audrey. I'm silly, I suppose; but it seems to me ifyour mamma could have left you with me in some little house in a nicecountry place, we might have been ever so happy."

  "Only our lessons, Pierson?" I said regretfully. "And Harding wouldn'twait, would he?--so there's no use thinking about it."

  "None whatever, and of course it's true about lessons. No doubt MasterTom--and you too, Miss Audrey
--will need good teachers. I must just hopethat whoever comes after me will be good to you and not let that oldwoman put upon you."

  "She sha'n't put upon _the boys_ any way," I said, with so determined alook in my face that Pierson was quite startled. "You may be sure ofthat; for whatever I'd bear for myself, I'd bear nothing for them."

  "But it wouldn't be as bad as that, Miss Audrey," said Pierson, ratherstartled at the effect of her words. "Of course they all _mean_ to bekind to you--there's no doubt about that; and then your papa and mammawished you to stay here. I shouldn't talk so out to you as I do, but Iwas just that vexed at Mrs. Partridge interfering so."

  I turned upon Pierson impatiently.

  "I wish you wouldn't be so changeable," I said. "I can't bear peoplethat say a thing and then try to unsay it. I don't believe they _do_mean to be kind to us."

  "Hush, hush, Miss Audrey, don't let your brothers hear what you aresaying, any way. We must try and find something to amuse them with, thisdull day."

  I went into the day nursery to see what the boys were doing, for myconversation with Pierson had been in the bedroom. Poor little boys,they did not look very merry. Racey, who was cleverer at amusing himselfthan Tom, was creeping about the floor drawing an imaginary cart, inreality the lid of Pierson's bonnet-box, to which with some difficultyhe had ingeniously fastened his own two boots as horses, for the toys wehad brought with us were not yet unpacked. Racey was quite cracked abouthorses--he turned everything into horses.

  "Look, Audrey, look," he said. "See my calliage and pair. But Tom won'tplay."

  "How could I play with that rubbish?" said Tom. "Indeed, I don't care toplay at all. I don't want Pierson to unpack our toys."

  "Why not?" I asked, rather puzzled.

  Tom was sitting on the window-sill, which was wide--for the house wasrather an old one I think--swinging his feet about and staring gloomilyat the dull rows of houses opposite.

  "Why don't you want Pierson to unpack our toys?" I repeated.

  "Oh because--because-- I can't quite say what I mean. If our toys wereall unpacked and put out nicely like they used to be at--at home," saidpoor Tom with a tremble in his voice, "it would seem as if we were tostay here _always_--as if it was to be a sort of a home to us, and youknow it would only be a pertence one. I'd rather just have it like itis, and then we can keep thinking that it's only for a little--just tillthey come back again."

  I did not answer at once. What he said made me think so much of that daywhen poor mother couldn't bear to pack up any pretty things for herhouse in China, because she said she didn't want to make a home of it.It was queer that Tom should say just the same--it must be true that hewas like mother.

  "Audrey," he went on again in a minute, still staring out of the window,in the same dull way, "Audrey, how many _days_ will it be till they comeback again?"

  "I don't know," I replied.

  "If we could find out exactly," he said, "I was thinking we might make apaper--a great big paper, with marks for every day, and then every nightwe might scratch one out. Papa told me he did that when he was a littleboy at school, to watch for the holidays coming, and I'm sure we wantthem to come back more than any holidays."

  "It might be a good plan," I said, for I didn't like to discourage Tomin anything he took a fancy to just now. But a sick, miserable feelingcame over me when I thought that we were actually speaking of countingthe days to their return, when they had not yet _gone_. Only thisafternoon would they reach Southampton, the first stage on the terriblelong journey.

  Tom still sat swinging his legs.

  "London isn't a very nice place, _is_ it?"]

  "Audrey," he said, "London isn't a very nice place, _is_ it?"

  Certainly the look-out to-day was not tempting. Rain, rain--wet andsloppy under foot, gray and gloomy over head. I pressed my cheek againstTom's round, rosy face, and we stared out together.

  "There must be _some_ happy children in London, I suppose," I said,"children whose fathers and mothers are at home with them to make themhappy," and as I said the words, suddenly on the other side of thestreet, a few doors down, my glance fell on the little conservatorywhich had caught Racey's eyes--his "air garden." I pointed it out toTom, who listened with interest to Racey's funny name for it.

  "I wonder," I said, "if there are happy children in that house?"