The House That Grew by Mrs. Molesworth
Produced by Annie McGuire. This book was produced fromscanned images of public domain material from the GooglePrint archive.
Book Cover]
THEHOUSETHATGREW
MRSMOLESWORTH
THE HOUSE THAT GREW
ROLF CAREFULLY DEPOSITED THE LITTLE CREATURE.--p. 175.]
THE HOUSE THAT GREW
BYMRS. MOLESWORTH
AUTHOR OF 'CARROTS,' 'CUCKOO CLOCK,' ETC.
ILLUSTRATED BY ALICE B. WOODWARD.
LONDONMACMILLAN AND CO LIMITEDNEW YORK: THE MACMILLAN COMPANY1900
CONTENTS
CHAP. PAGE I. 'IT'S DREADFUL, ISN'T IT?' 1 II. 'MUFFINS, FOR ONE THING, I HOPE' 18 III. 'IT'S A WONDERFUL IDEA, IDA' 35 IV. 'GEORDIE STOOD UP AND WAVED HIS CAP' 52 V. 'WHAT _CAN_ SHE MEAN?' 69 VI. 'YOU DO UNDERSTAND SO WELL, MAMMA' 86 VII. 'NO,' SAID MAMMA, 'THAT ISN'T ALL' 103 VIII. 'I'VE BROUGHT MY HOUSE WITH ME, LIKE A SNAIL' 120 IX. 'THE KIND SEA, TOO, AUNTIE DEAR' 138 X. 'IT'S ANOTHER SNAIL' 155 XI. 'I MADE SURE OF THAT,' SAID ROLF 172 XII. 'WELL--ALL IS WELL THAT ENDS WELL!' 189
ILLUSTRATIONS
ROLF CAREFULLY DEPOSITED THE LITTLE CREATURE _Front._ (_p._ 175) WE WERE WALKING ON SLOWLY _To face page_ 11 NO--THERE WAS NOTHING FOR IT BUT TO LIE STILL 39 ORDERING DENZIL ABOUT AS USUAL 73 WE WERE OUT ON THE TERRACE, AND MRS. TREVOR COMING TO MEET US 101 'I CAN'T VERY WELL GET OUT,' SHE SAID 131 SHE FASTENED THE ONE END OF THE STRING ROUND HIS POOR LITTLE BODY 187
CHAPTER I
'IT'S DREADFUL, ISN'T IT?'
Mamma sat quite quietly in her favourite corner, on the sofa in thedrawing-room, all the time papa was speaking. I think, or I thoughtafterwards, that she was crying a little, though that isn't her way atall. Dods didn't think so, for I asked him, when we were by ourselves.She did not speak any way, except just to whisper to me when I ran up tokiss her before we went out, 'We will have a good talk about it allafterwards, darling. Run out now with Geordie.'
I was very glad to get out of the room, I was so dreadfully afraid ofbeginning to cry myself. I didn't know which I was the sorriestfor--papa or mamma--mamma, I think, though I don't know, either! Papatried to be so cheerful about it; it was almost worse than if he hadspoken very sadly. It reminded me of Dods when he was a very little boyand broke his arm, and when they let me peep into the room just afterthe doctor had set it, he smiled and whistled to make out it didn't hurtmuch, though he was as white as white. Poor old Doddie! And poor papa!
'It'll be worse for us and for mamma than for papa, won't it, Dods?' Isaid, as soon as we were outside and quite out of hearing. 'They alwayssay that it's the worst for those that are left behind--the going-awayones have the change and bustle, you see.'
'How can I tell?' said Dods; 'you ask such stupid things, Ida. It'sabout as bad as it can be for everybody, and I don't see that it makesit any better to go on counting which it's the worst for.'
He gave himself a sort of wriggle, and began switching the hedge withthe little cane he was carrying; by that and the gruff tone of hisvoice, I could tell he was feeling very bad, so I didn't mind his beingrather cross, and we walked on for a minute or two without speaking.
Then suddenly Dods--I call him Dods, but his real name is George, andmamma calls him Geordie--stopped short.
'Where are you going, Ida?' he said. 'I hear those children hallooingover there in the little planting. They'll be down upon us in anothermoment, tiresome things, if we don't get out of the way, and I certainlydon't want them just now.'
I didn't either, though I'm very fond of them. But they're _so_ muchyounger, only seven and eight then, and Dods and I were thirteen andfourteen. And we have always gone in pairs. Dods and I, and Denzil andEsme. Besides, of course, the poor little things were not to be toldjust yet of the strange troubles and sorrows that had come, or werecoming, to us.
So I agreed with Dods that we had better get out of the way.
'Esme is so quick,' I said; 'she'd very likely see there was somethingthe matter, and papa did so warn us not to let them know.'
'Humph,' said Dods. 'I don't think we need worry about _them_. Denzil isas dense as a hedgehog, and as comfortable as a fat dormouse. _He'd_never worry as long as he has plenty to eat and a jolly warm bed tosleep in. And Esme's just a----'
'A what?' I said, rather vexed, for Esme _is_ a sweet. She's not fat orlazy, and I don't think Denzil is--not extra, for such a little boy.
'She's just a sort of a butterfly,' said Geordie. '_She'd_ never mindanything for long. She'd just settle down for half a moment and then flyup again as merry as a sandboy.'
I could not help bursting out laughing. It was partly, I daresay, that Ifelt as if I must either laugh or cry. But Dods did mix uphis--'similes,' I think, is the right word--so funnily! Hedgehogs anddormice and butterflies and sandboys, all in a breath.
'I don't see what there is to laugh at,' said Geordie, very grumpilyagain, though he had been getting a little brighter.
'No more do I, I'm sure,' I replied, sadly enough, and then, I think,Dods felt sorry.
'Where shall we go?' he said gently.
'Wherever you like--to the hut, I think. It is always nice there, and wecan lock ourselves in if we hear the children coming,' I answered.
The hut, as we called it, was our very most favourite place. It was muchmore than you would fancy from the name, as you will hear before long.But we did not wait to go on talking, till we got there. The children'svoices did not come any nearer, but died away in the distance, so wewalked on quietly, without hurrying.
'Ida,' said Geordie after a bit, 'it's dreadful, isn't it?'
'Yes,' I agreed; 'I think it is.'
The 'it' was the news poor papa had been telling us. We were not quitelike most other children, I think, in some ways. I think we--that is,Dods and I--were rather more thoughtful, though that sounds likepraising ourselves, which I am sure I don't mean. But papa and mamma hadalways had us a good deal with them and treated us almost likecompanions, and up to now, though he was getting on for thirteen, Dodshad never been away at school, only going to Kirke, the little town nearus, for some lessons with the vicar, and doing some with me and ourgoverness, who came over from Kirke every day. So papa had told us whathad to be told, almost as if we were grown-up people.
We did not understand it quite exactly, for it had to do with businessthings, which generally mean 'money' things, it seems to me, and which,even now, though I am sixteen past, I don't perfectly understand. And Idaresay I shall not explain it all as well as a quite grown-up personwould. But I don't think that will matter. This story is just a realaccount of something rather out of the common, and I am writing itpartly as a kind of practice, for I do hope I shall be able to writestories in books some day, and partly because I think it is interestingeven if it never gets into a book, and I should like Denzil and Esme toread it all over, for fear of their forgetting about it.
I must first tell what the news was that we had just heard. Poor papahad lost a lot of money!
We were not very rich, but we had had quite enough, and our homewas--and _is_, I am thankful to say--the sweetest, nicest home in theworld. Our grandfathers and great-grandfathers back to papa'sgreat-great ones have always lived here and seen to everythingthemselves, which makes a home nicer than anything else. But a
And we got into the way--I mean by 'we,' papa and mamma, and grandpapa,no doubt, in his time--of thinking of the West Indian money as somethingquite safe and certain, that could not ever 'go down' like other things.
But there came a day, not very long before the one I am writing about,which brought sudden and very bad news. Things had gone wrong,dreadfully wrong out at that place--Saint Silvio's--and it was quitepossible that _all_ our money from there would stop for good. The horridpart of it was, that it all came from somebody's wrongdoing--not fromearthquakes or hurricanes or outside troubles of that kind--but fromreal dishonesty on the part of the agents papa had trusted. There wasnothing for it but for poor papa himself to go out there, for a year atleast, perhaps for two years, to find out everything and see what couldbe done.
There was a _possibility_, papa said, of things coming right, or partlyright again, once he was there and able to go into it all himself. Butto do this it was necessary that he should start as soon as could bemanaged; and with the great doubt of our _ever_ being at all well offagain, it was also necessary that mamma and we four should be very, verycareful about expenses at home, and just spend as little as we could.
A piece of good fortune had happened in the middle of all this; at least_papa_ called it good fortune, though I am afraid George and I did notfeel as if it was good at all! Papa had had an offer from some people totake our house--our own dear Eastercove--for a year, or perhaps more. Wehad often been asked to let it, for it is so beautifully placed--closeto the sea, and yet with lovely woods and grounds all round it, which isvery uncommon at the sea-side. Our pine woods are almost famous, andthere are nooks and dells and glens and cliffs that I could not describeif I tried ever so hard, so deliciously pretty and picturesque are they.
But till now we had never dreamt of letting it. Indeed, we used to feelquite angry, which was rather silly, I daresay, if ever we heard of anyoffer being made for it. And now the offer that had come was a very goodone; it was not only more money than had ever been proposed before, butit came from very nice sort of people, whom the agent knew were quiteto be trusted in every way.
'They will take good care of the house and of all our things,' saidpapa, 'and keep on any of the servants who like to stay.'
'Shall we not have _any_ servants then?' Dods had asked. 'Do you meanthat mamma--mamma and Ida and the little ones--I don't mind for myself,I'm a boy; I'll go to sea as a common sailor if it would be anygood--but do you mean, that we shall be like _really_ poor people?' Andhere there came a choke in his voice that made me feel as if I could_scarcely_ keep from crying. For I knew what he was thinking of--theidea of mamma, our pretty mamma, with her merry laugh and nice dresses,and soft, white hands, having to work and even scrub perhaps, and togive up all the things and ways she was used to--it was too dreadful!
Papa looked sorry and went on again quietly--
'No, no, my boy,' he said; 'don't exaggerate it. Of course mamma and youall must have every comfort possible. One servant, anyway--Hoskins issure to stay, and a younger one as well, I _hope_. And there must be nothought of your going to sea, George, or going anywhere, till I comeback again. I look to you to take care of them all--that is why I amexplaining more to you and Ida than many people would to such youngones. But I know you are both very sensible for your age. You see, weare sure of the new rent, thanks to this Mr. Trevor's offer--and even_that_ would prevent us from being in a desperate position. And, ofcourse, the usual money will go on coming in from the property, thoughthe most of it must go in keeping things in order, in case----' but herepapa broke off.
'I know what you were going to say, papa,' said poor Dods, growingscarlet; he was certainly very quick-witted,--"in case we have to sellEastercove!" Oh, papa! anything but that! I'll work--I'll do _anything_to make money, so long as we don't have to do that. Our old, old home!'
He could not say any more, and turned away his head.
'It has not come to that yet, my boy,' said papa, after a moment ortwo's silence. 'Let us keep up heart in the meantime, and hope for thebest.'
Then he went on to tell us some of the plans he and mamma had alreadybegun to make--about our going to live in some little house at Kirke,where we should not feel so strange as farther away, though there wereobjections to this too,--anything at all _nice_ in the shape of even atiny house there would be dear, as the neighbourhood was much soughtafter by visitors in winter as well as in summer. For it was consideredso very healthy for delicate people; the air was always clear and dry,and the scent of the pine woods so strengthening. Papa, however, wasdoing his best; he and mamma were going there that very afternoon, 'Tospy the land,' papa said, trying to speak cheerily.
So now I come back to where I began my explanation as to what the 'it'was, that Geordie and I agreed was so dreadful.
WE WERE WALKING ON SLOWLY.]
We were walking on slowly to the hut, and just as I had replied, 'Ithink it is,' we came in sight of it, and something--I don't knowwhat--made us both stop and look at this favourite spot of ours. It wasso pretty to-day--perhaps that was it. A sudden clearing brought us outof the wood, through which we had been following a well-worn, narrowpath, and the bright, soft light of the early afternoon--of an Aprilafternoon--was falling on the quaint little place. It was more like twoor three huts than one, and indeed it really did consist of three orfour rooms, which we children had been allowed to consider our ownquarters, and to decorate and improve according to our fancy and taste.To begin with, it had been a bathing-house, of two rooms, partly ofstone, partly of wood, standing on a little plateau, just at the edge ofthe pine trees, and well above the sea, so that even in stormy weatherthe water could not possibly reach it; besides which, I must say thatstormy weather in the shape of high tides or great waves never did showitself in this cove. Often and often we had sat there, listening to theboom and crash at the foot of the cliffs, round at the other side, assnug and peaceful as if we had been miles inland.
And the sands that sloped down from our hut were just perfection, bothas to prettiness and niceness for bathing. They shone to-day like goldand silver mixed in the sunshine; and the hut itself, though queerlyshaped, looked pretty too. We had managed, in spite of the sandy soil,to get some hardy creepers to grow over it on the inland side, and wehad sunk some old tubs filled with good soil in front of the porch--forthere was a porch--in which flourished some nice, bushy evergreens, andthere was even a tiny terrace with long flower-boxes, where, for sixmonths of the year at least, geraniums and fuchsias, and for part ofthe time, nice, big, white and yellow and straw-coloured daisies seemedquite at home. It was a _lovely_ place for children to have of theirown; and the year before, papa had added two other rooms to it, for ourphotographing--_iron_ rooms, these were, and not at all ugly, thoughthat would not have mattered much, as they were at the back, beside thelittle kitchen, where we were allowed to cook our luncheons and teaswhen we were spending a whole day on the shore.
'Dods!' I exclaimed, as we stood there in silence, admiring our mansion,'we must see about the flowers for the long boxes. It's getting quitetime, for Bush has settled all about the bedding-out plants--he told meso yesterday--so he'll be able to tell us what he has to spare.'
I spoke in utter forgetfulness--but it only lasted a moment--only, thatis to say, till I caught the expression of Geordie's mournful blueeyes--he _can_ make them look so mournful when he likes--fixed upon mein silent reproach.
'Ida,' he said at last, 'what are you thinking of? _What's the use?_'
'Oh, Dods! oh, dear, dear Doddie!' I cried--I don't think I quite knewwhat I was saying,--'forgi
And then--I am not now ashamed to tell it, for I really had been keepingit in at the cost of a good deal of forcing myself--I just left offtrying to be brave or self-controlled or anything, and burst outcrying--regular loud crying. I am afraid I almost howled.
George looked at me once more, then for a minute or so he turned away. Iam not sure if he was crying, anyway he wasn't _howling_. But in aninstant or two, while I was rubbing at my eyes with my handkerchief, andfeeling rather, or very ashamed, I felt something come round my neck,crushing it up so tightly that I was almost choked, and then Doddie'svoice in my ear, very gruff, very gruff indeed of course, saying--
'Poor Ida, poor old Ida! I know it's quite as bad or worse for you. Fora _man_ can always go out into the world and fight his way, and havesome fun however hard he works.'
'That wouldn't make it any better for _me_, Dods,' I said--we bothforgot, I think, that he was a good way off being a man justyet,--'you're my only comfort. I don't mean that mamma isn't one, ofcourse; but it's our business now to cheer her up. Papa said so ever somany times. I don't really know, though, how I _could_ have cheered herup, or even tried to, if you had been away at school already!'
Poor George's face darkened at this. It was rather an unlucky speech. Hehad thought of things already that had never come into my head. One wasthat it seemed unlikely enough now that papa would ever be able to sendhim to school at all--I mean, of course, to the big public school, forwhich his name had been down for ever so long, and on which, like allEnglish boys, his heart was set. For he knew how expensive all publicschools are.
'Don't talk of school, Ida,' he said huskily. 'Luckily it's a good yearoff still,' for it had never been intended that he should go till he wasfourteen; 'and,' with a deep sigh, 'we must keep on hoping, I suppose.'
'Yes, and working,' I added. 'Whatever happens, Dods, you must workwell, and I'll do my best to help you. Mightn't you perhaps gain ascholarship, or whatever you call them, that would make school costless?'
This remark was as lucky as the other had been unfortunate. Dodsbrightened up at once.
'By Jove,' he said, 'what a good idea! I never thought of it. I'll tellyou what, Ida; I'll ask Mr. Lloyd about it the very first time I seehim--that'll be the day after to-morrow, as to-morrow's Sunday.'
Mr. Lloyd was the vicar of Kirke.
I felt quite proud of having thought of something to cheer Geordie up,and my tears stopped, and by the time we had got to the hut, we wereboth in much better spirits.
'It is to be hoped,' I said, 'that papa and mamma _will_ find some kindof a house at Kirke, however poky. For you would be very sorry not to goon with Mr. Lloyd--wouldn't you, Dods?'
'Of course I should,' he replied heartily. 'He's very kind and verystrict. And if I mean to work harder than ever before, as I do now,since you put that jolly idea into my head, it's a good thing he _is_strict.'
When we got to the hut and unlocked the door, we found a good deal todo. For on Saturdays we generally--we _meant_ to do it regularly, but Iam afraid we sometimes forgot--had a sort of cleaning and tidying up.Photographing is very nice and interesting of course, and so is cooking,but they are rather messy! And when you've been doing one or the othernearly all day, it's rather disgusting to have to begin washing upgreasy dishes, and chemicalised rags and glasses, and pots and pans, andall the rest of it. I don't mean that we ever cleaned up thephotographing things with the kitchen things; we weren't so silly, as,of course, we should not only have spoilt our instruments, but run agood risk of poisoning ourselves too. But the whole lot needed cleaning,and I don't know which were the tiresomest.
And the last day we had spent at the hut, we had only half-tidied up, wehad got _so_ tired. So there were all the things about, as if they'dbeen having a dance in the night, like Hans Andersen's toys, and hadforgotten to put themselves to bed after it.
Dods and I looked at each other rather grimly.
'It's got to be done,' I said. 'It's a shame to see the place so brightand sunny outside and so _dreadfully_ messy indoors.'
'Yes,' said Dods, 'it is. So fire away, Ida. After all----' but hedidn't finish his sentence and didn't need to. I knew what hemeant--that quite possibly it was the very last time we'd need to have agood cleaning up in the dear old hut.