Boys and I: A Child's Story for Children Page 9

  CHAPTER IX.

  MISS GOLDY-HAIR.

  "I thought at first sight that she must be a fairy."

  No, I can hardly say we "_ran_" off. There were so many persons on thepavement, that three, even very small people, could not walk along allabreast, without some difficulty. Particularly three small people likeus who were accustomed to country lanes without any footpath at all, orhigh roads where the only fellow-passengers whose way we had to get outof were droves of nice silly sheep, or flocks of geese driven home fromthe market. We knew nothing of keeping to the right hand, and thoughtthe passers-by were very rude and unkind when they jostled us, as indeedthey could hardly help doing. For as for letting go of each other'shands _that_ we never for an instant thought of.

  We were glad to get out of the great crowded, brightly-lighted street,though had we been less in a hurry to get home, we should have greatlyenjoyed standing and looking in at the shop-windows, more even than bydaylight, and as it was, I was obliged two or three times to tug prettyhard at Tom and Racey to get them away from some very tempting one. Atlast however--it _did_ seem as if we had been in the big street ratherlonger turning back from the chemist's than going there--afterwards Iremembered this--at last we found ourselves in what we believed to bethe same, rather narrow, darkish street where we had passed thepillar-post.

  "Which side is the pillar?" I said to Tom. "I'm sure it was on this sideand now I don't see it."

  Tom stared about him.

  "It must be a little further on," he said.

  But further on it was not to be seen, and we began to feel perfectlypuzzled. The street was quite a short one--we soon came to the end,where, right and left, it ran into a wider one, quiet and rather darktoo--that is to say, compared with the great street of shops where wehad just been. We stood at the corner looking about us--

  "This is our street--it must be," I said; "but what _can_ have become ofthe letter-box in the little street?"

  Tom could say nothing, he was as puzzled as I. We walked on slowly, morebecause we did not know what else to do, than for any other reason.Going home without posting the letter, for which we had run such risks,was not to be thought of. Suddenly Tom gave a little scream, and wouldhave darted across the street had I not kept tight hold of him.

  "Tom, what is the matter? Where are you going?" I said.

  Tom wriggled and pulled.

  "Let me go, Audrey," he said. "_There's_ one--don't you see--across thestreet. Let me go, to be sure it's a proper one like the other."

  "One" meant another pillar-post. I wouldn't let go of Tom, but we allwent across together to examine it. It was just like the one that hadsuddenly disappeared from the little street, and it took a great weightoff me when I had dropped my letter into it.

  "It is just as if they had wheeled it across from the streetopposite--isn't it?" I said to Tom.

  But as there were no wheels, and as the pillar seemed stuck in theground as firm as a rock, we could not explain the mystery.

  "Now," said I, "let's run across again and find our house. It must bejust about opposite."

  We crossed the street and went along slowly, peeping at every house wepassed in search of some sign by which we would know it. We had left thedoor the tiniest little bit ajar you will remember--and two or threetimes when we saw a house which we fancied looked just like UncleGeoff's, we went up the steps and gently pushed to see if the door wasopen. But no--none of them were, and beginning to be really frightenedwe returned to the pavement and considered what we should do.

  "I don't understand it," I said, "we _must_ have passed it. It wasn'tabove five or six houses from the street we turned, down, where thepillar-post was."

  "But, Audrey," said Tom, "p'raps we came up another street by mistake,'cause you know we couldn't find the pillar coming back. Let's go back alittle and see if we don't come to the street where _it_ is, and thenwe'll know."

  It seemed the only thing to do--it was quite, _quite_ dark of course bynow--the only light was from the gas-lamps, which in this street did notseem very bright. It was very cold--we were all three beginning toshiver, because, you see, running out as we thought just for fiveminutes we had not wrapped up very warmly. It was worst for the boys,who had nothing besides the sailor suits they always wore, except theircomforters and caps, though I had my jacket. And to add to our troublesit began to rain, a miserable, fine, cold rain, which seemed to freezeas well as to wet us. I was so unhappy that it was all I could do not tocry.

  "The boys will get cold," I said to myself. "And mother said we must bevery careful of cold for Tom this winter as he had the measles so badly.Oh dear, what _shall_ we do! If I could see anybody, I would ask them tohelp us to find the way back to Uncle Geoff's."

  But just then there was no one in sight, and I was thinking whether itwould not be best to try to find our way back to the friendly chemistand ask him to help us, when Tom called out suddenly:

  "Audrey, we've got on the wrong side of the street. Look, the next houseis the one with what Racey calls an air-garden."

  I looked and saw the little glass conservatory he pointed out. Itbelonged to the house next to the one we were passing. I didn't feelsatisfied-- I couldn't see how we could have got on the wrong side ofthe street, for we had certainly kept in a right _direction_, but Tomwas so sure, I didn't like to contradict him. And he pulled Racey andme across the street almost before I had time to consider.

  "Our house is almost opposite the one with the air-garden," he said,"just a little bit further along. Yes, this one _must_ be it." Hehurried us up the steps and when we got to the front door gave it alittle push. It yielded--it was open.

  "You see," said Tom triumphantly, "you see I was right, Audrey."

  But almost before he had said the words, Racey pulled us back.

  "This _idn't_ our house," he said, "it tannot be. Look, Audrey; look,Tom, this house has a' air-garden too."

  He pointed above our heads, and looking up, Tom and I saw what in ourhurried crossing the street we had not noticed--there was a conservatoryon the first floor just like the one opposite!

  "Come back, come back," I said. "This isn't our house. Perhaps thepeople will be angry with us for pushing the door open."

  But it was too late--the door had been a little open before we touchedit, for there were people standing in the hall just inside, and one ofthem, an errand boy, was coming out, when the push Tom had given caughttheir attention. The door was pulled wide open from the inside and wesaw plainly right into the brightly-lighted hall. A man-servant cameforward to see who we were--or what we were doing.

  "Now get off the steps you there," he said roughly. "My lady can't havebeggars loitering about."

  Frightened as we were, Tom's indignation could not be kept down.

  "We're _not_ beggars, you rude man," he cried, "we thought this was ourhouse, and--and--" he could say no more, poor little boy--for all hismanliness he was only a very little boy, you know--the tears would notbe kept back any longer, he burst out sobbing, and immediately he heardTom's crying Racey of course began too. I did not know what to do-- Ithrew my arms round them and tried to comfort them. "Don't cry, dears,"I said, "we'll go back to the chemist's, and he'll show us the way home.And nobody shall scold _you_, I don't care what they say to me."

  The man-servant was still standing holding the door; he seemed on thepoint of shutting it, but I suppose something in our way of speaking,though he could not clearly see how we were dressed, had made him beginto think he had been mistaken, and he stared at us curiously. I thinktoo, for he wasn't an unkind man, he felt sorry to hear the boys cryingso. The bustle on the steps caught the attention of the other person inthe hall--who had been speaking to the errand-boy when we came up,though we had not noticed her. A voice, which even at that moment Ifancied I had heard before, stopped us as we were turning away.

  "What is the matter, James?" it said. "Is it some poor children on thesteps? Don't be rough to them. I'd like to see what they want."

  Then she c
ame forward and stood right in our sight, though even now shecouldn't see us well, as we were outside in the dark, you know. We alllooked at her, and for a minute we felt too surprised to speak. It wasthe young lady in the black dress with the pretty goldy hair that hadcome one day to our house. We all knew her again--she looked sweeter andprettier than ever, with a nice grave sort of kindness in her face thatI think children love even more than smiles and merriness. We all knewher again, but Racey was the first to speak. He pulled himself out of myarms--I didn't hold him back--and he rushed to the young lady and caughthold of her almost as if she had been mother.

  "Oh please, please take care of us," he cried, hiding his fair, curlyhead in her black skirt, "we're lostened. Muzzie's done away, you know,and we don't like being at London at all."

  The young lady for half a moment looked perfectly puzzled. Then a lightbroke over her face. She lifted Racey up in her arms, and pressing herface against his in a sort of kissing way, just almost as mother herselfwould have done, she came forward quite close to Tom and me, still onthe steps in the rain, and spoke to us.

  "My poor little people," she said, "you must be quite wet. I know whoyou are-- I remember. Come in--come in out of the cold, and tell me allabout it."

  My first wish was just to beg her to tell us the way to Uncle Geoff'shouse and to hurry off as fast as we could. I was beginning to be soterribly frightened as to what would happen when we _did_ get back. Buther voice was so kind, and it was _so_ cold outside, and Racey wasclinging to her so--it looked, too, so warm and comfortable inside thenice, bright house, that I could not help going in. Tom would havepulled me in, I think, had I refused. He was still sobbing, but once wegot inside the hall he began fishing in his pocket till he got out hishandkerchief and scrubbed at his eyes before he would look up at theyoung lady at all. _Nothing_ would take away Tom's dislike to be seencrying.

  "James," said the young lady, "open the library door."

  James, who had become particularly meek--I suppose he was rather ashamedof having taken us for little beggars, now that he saw the young ladyknew us--did as she told him. And still carrying Racey in her arms MissGoldy-hair (I think I told you that Tom and I called her that toourselves after the day she had been at our house?) led the way into thelibrary where she had been sitting when she was called to speak to themessage boy in the hall. For there were books and some pretty work onthe table, and a little tray with two or three cups and saucers and aplate with cake--all very nice and neat-looking--the sort of way motherhad things at home. And the fire was burning brightly. It was a niceroom, though rather grave-looking, for there were books all round andround the walls instead of paper.

  The first thing she did--Miss Goldy-hair, I mean--was to draw us near tothe fire. She put Racey down on a low chair that was standing there andbegan feeling us to see if we were very wet.

  "Not so very bad," she said, smiling for the first time. "Audrey--areyou surprised I remember your name?--take off your jacket, dear. I don'tthink the boys will get any harm, this rough serge throws off the rain._Now_--" when we were all settled so as to get nice and warm--"now, whois going to tell me all about it? My little fellow," she added, turningto Tom, who was still shaking with sobs, partly I think because of theterrible way he was trying to force them down and to scrub his eyes dry,"my little man, don't look so unhappy," she put her arm round him as shespoke, "I'm sure we shall be able to put it all right."

  "It's not all that," I said, "it's partly that he can't bear you to seehim crying, Miss Goldy-hair. He thinks it's like a baby."

  A different sort of smile came into her face for a moment, a smile offun-- I wondered a little what it was. It wasn't till she told meafterwards that I understood how funny our name for her must havesounded, for I said it quite without thinking.

  "Oh no," she said. "I didn't think that at all, my boy. Here, dear, takea little drink of this tea." She got up and poured some out. "It's stillhot, and that will help to make the sobs go away."

  "Tom had the measles worse than me," I said, "and he's not been sostrong since," for though she said she didn't think him a bit like ababy, I couldn't bear it for him that he shouldn't be thought brave,when really he was.

  "Ah!" she said quickly, "then we must take great care of him."

  She looked at him anxiously while he drank the hot tea.

  "I know a great deal about children," she said to me, nodding her headand smiling again. "Some day I'll show you what a number I have to helpto take care of. But now, little Audrey, what were you three doing outin the street by yourselves in the dark and the rain?"

  "We came out to post a letter," I said; "I didn't want anybody to knowabout it for perhaps they wouldn't have sent it. So Mrs. Partridge wasout, and we were in the dining-room, and Uncle Geoff was out, and Sarahwas busy sewing and we thought nobody would know, and Tom wanted to goalone, but I thought he'd get lost and Racey wouldn't stay alone, so weall came. And we lost the way, and we thought this was our house becauseit was opposite one with an air-garden and we didn't see it couldn't beours because it had an air-garden too."

  I stopped for a minute out of breath.

  "It was me that sawed the air-garden _wurst_," said Racey. He spoke withgreat self-satisfaction. There he sat as comfortable as could be--heseemed to think he had got to an end of all his troubles and to have nointention of moving from where he was.

  The young lady glanced at him with her kind eyes, and then turned againto me. She was evidently rather puzzled, but very patient, so it was notdifficult to tell her everything. Indeed I couldn't have _helped_telling her everything. She had a way of making you feel she was strongand you might trust her and that she could put things right, even thoughshe was so soft and kind and like a pretty wavy sort of tree--not a bithard and rough.

  Her face looked a little grave as well as puzzled while I was speaking.I don't think she liked what I said about not wanting them to know._Her_ face and eyes looked as if she had never hidden anything in herlife.

  "And what was the letter, Audrey? And whom was it to?"

  "It was to Pierson--that's our old nurse," I said. I hesitated a littleand Miss Goldy-hair noticed it.

  "And what was it about?" she said, very kindly still, but yet in a waythat I couldn't help answering.

  "It was to tell her how unhappy we were," I said in a low voice, "and totell her that I was going to try to go to her with the boys--to takethem away from Uncle Geoff's, because Mrs. Partridge is so horrid andshe makes Uncle Geoff think we're always being naughty. And mother saidI was to make the boys happy while she's so far away, and I can't. And Ican't make them good either--we're getting into quarrelling waysalready. I'm sure we'd be better with Pierson in the country."

  "Where does Pierson live?" asked the young lady.

  "At a village called Cray--it's near Copple--Copple-- I forget the name,but I've got it written down. You won't tell Uncle Geoff?" I addedanxiously.

  "No," said Miss Goldy-hair, "not without your leave. But that remindsme--won't your uncle be frightened about you all this time?"

  "He won't be in till late," I said. "But Sarah will be frightened--andoh! I'm so afraid Mrs. Partridge will be coming back. Oh! hadn't webetter go now if you'll tell us the way. It's in this street, isn't it?"

  "No, dear," said the young lady--and I was so glad she called me "dear."I had been afraid she wouldn't like me any more when she knew what I hadbeen thinking of doing. "No, dear," she said, "you've got into anotherstreet altogether--that's why you were so puzzled. This street is verylike the one you live in and they run parallel, if you know what thatmeans."

  "I wish it was this street," I said.

  "And so do I," said Tom.

  "Why?" asked Miss Goldy-hair.

  "Because we'd like to be near you," we both said, pressing close to her."You're like mother."

  The tears came into Miss Goldy-hair's eyes--they really did--but shesmiled too.

  "And what do you say, my little man?" she said to Racey.

  Racey was stil
l reposing most comfortably in his big chair.

  "I'll stay here," he said, "if Audrey and Tom can stay too. And I'd like'tawberry jam for tea."

  The young lady smiled again.

  "I'd like to keep you," she said, "but think how frightened poor Sarahwill be--and your uncle when he comes in."

  Tom and I looked at each other. We were so glad she didn't say, "Thinkhow frightened poor Mrs. Partridge will be."

  "I think the best thing will be for me to take you home," she went on."Though it isn't in this street it's very near. Not three minutes' walk.Yes," she said, more as if speaking to herself than to us, "that will bebest--for me to take them alone."

  She rang the bell, and James appeared.

  "James," she said, "I am going out for a few minutes. When Miss Arbourcomes in tell her I shall not be long. I am sure to be back bydinner-time."

  Then Miss Goldy-hair went away for a minute or two and returned wrappedup in a big cloak, and with a couple of little jackets which she put onTom and Racey.

  "These are some of my children's jackets," she said. Tom and Raceylooked at them curiously. It was queer that Miss Goldy-hair's children'scloaks should just fit them.

  "They're just right for us," said Tom.

  "Yes," she said, "I have several sizes of them. I've been getting themready for my children for this cold weather."

  "Are they here?" said Tom.

  "Who?" said Miss Goldy-hair.

  "Your childrens," said Tom.

  Miss Goldy-hair shook her head.

  "No," she replied. "They're in a much bigger house than this. Therewouldn't be room for them here."

  Then seeing that Tom, and I too, I dare say--not Racey, he wouldn't havebeen surprised if Miss Goldy-hair had said she had a hundred children;he never was surprised at anything when he was a little boy. If he hadheard his toy-horses talking in their stables some day, I don't believehe'd have been startled--but seeing that Tom and I looked puzzled sheexplained what she meant to us.

  "It is poor children I mean," she said. "Some kind ladies have made anice home for poor orphan children who have no homes of their own, andas I have not any one of my own to take care of I have a great deal oftime. So I go to see these poor children very often to help to teachthem and make them happy, and sometimes when they are ill to help tonurse them. I like going to see them very much."

  Tom looked rather pleased when he heard that Miss Goldy-hair meant poorchildren. I think he was a little inclined to be jealous before he heardthat.

  "But it isn't as nice as if you had children of your own in your ownhouse--like mother has us. It isn't as nice as if _we_ were yourchildren," said Tom.

  Miss Goldy-hair smiled.

  "No," she said, "I don't think it is."

  We were in the street by this time, walking along pretty quickly, for itwas still raining a little and very cold. But we didn't mind it. MissGoldy-hair knew the way so well. She turned down one or two small sidestreets, and then in a minute we found ourselves at Uncle Geoff's.

  Walking along with her we had felt so well taken care of that we hadalmost forgotten our fears of what might meet us at home. But now,actually on the door-steps, they returned.

  "Don't ring, Miss Goldy-hair, please," I said. "Let's see first if thedoor is still open."

  Strange to say it was! After all, though it has taken so long to tell,not more than three-quarters of an hour had passed since we went out,and it was a quiet time of evening. No one had happened to ring at thebell. But as we pushed open the door, the first thing we saw wasSarah--flying down-stairs in a terrible fright, as white as a sheet andlooking nearly out of her mind. She had missed us out of the dining-roomand had rushed up to the nursery to look for us, and not finding usthere did not know what to think.

  She gave a sort of scream when she saw us.

  "Oh dear! oh dear!" she cried. "Where _have_ you been? Oh, Miss Audrey,how could you! Oh dear! you have frightened me so."

  But before we said anything Tom and I ran forward with the samequestion.

  "Has Mrs. Partridge come in?" and oh! how thankful we were when Sarahshook her head.

  "Thank goodness, no!" she said.

  Then Miss Goldy-hair came forward. She had been writing a few words inpencil on a card, and in her excitement, Sarah had hardly noticed her.

  "Will you give this to Dr. Gower when he comes in?" said MissGoldy-hair, and Sarah made a little curtsey and begged her pardon fornot having seen her.

  "Dr. Gower knows me," she said to Sarah; "but please do not say anythingto him about my having brought the children home, as I would ratherexplain it myself."

  Then she turned to go, but we all clung about her. "Oh, Miss Goldy-hair,Miss Goldy-hair," we cried, "you're not going away."

  "I must, dears," she said, "but I shall be sure to see you to-morrow. Iam going to ask your uncle to let you come and have dinner and tea withme."

  "But p'raps the new nurse'll come to-morrow, and she'll whip us," sobbedRacey.

  Miss Goldy-hair looked quite distressed.

  "No, dear," she said. "I'm sure your uncle wouldn't let her."

  "Will you turn early, _kite_ early?" Racey begged.

  "Yes, that I can promise you," she answered.

  But I too had some last words.

  "Miss Goldy-hair," I said, "you told me you wouldn't tell Uncle Geoff?"

  "Not without your leave, dear, I said," she replied. "But don't youthink it would be better to tell him? Won't you trust me to tell him?"

  "But not Mrs. Partridge," I pleaded.

  "No, I don't think we need tell Mrs. Partridge."

  "Well, then I'll let you tell Uncle Geoff, and if he writes to motherthat we're naughty you'll write too, won't you?"

  "Can't you trust me, Audrey?"]

  "Wait till to-morrow and we'll talk it all over. Can't you trust me,Audrey?"

  She bent down and looked in my face. I looked at her for a minutewithout speaking. I liked to be _sure_ before I said a thing, always. SoI looked right into her face, but I won't tell you what I thought,because _somebody_ that's going to read this over might be vexed. Andall I _said_ was, "Yes, Miss Goldy-hair."