The House That Grew by Mrs. Molesworth

  CHAPTER V

  'WHAT _CAN_ SHE MEAN?'

  I remember that Monday afternoon so well. It was very interesting. Mr.Lloyd was very kind and clever about things, and the carpenter, though arather slow, very silent man, understood his business and was quiteready to do all that was wanted. Papa was as eager as a boy, and Geordiefull 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 tinypassage between the side of the hut where the room was to be placed, sothat the two doorways into it could both be used,--one to enter intoGeordie's room, so that he could run in and out without having to gothrough mamma's or ours, and the other leading into mamma's, from whichwe could pass to ours. And the partitions made them really as good asthree proper rooms, each with a nice window. There could be nofireplace in ours, but as it was the middle one, and therefore sure tobe the warmest, that would not matter, as there were two, one at eachend in the iron room. If it was very cold, mamma said Esme and I mightundress in hers, and _dress_ in his, Geordie added, as he meant alwaysto be up very early and light his own fire to work by, which ratheramused us all, as he was _not_ famed for early rising. Indeed, I neverknew such a sleepy head as he was--poor old Dods!

  We felt satisfied, as we walked home, that we had done a good day'swork.

  'Though it _couldn't_ have been managed without the iron room,' Geordieand I agreed.

  And a day or two later we felt still more settled and pleased when mammatold us that Hoskins and Margery were coming with us. Hoskins was just alittle melancholy about it all, not a bit for herself, I do believe, butbecause she thought it would be 'such a change, so different' for mammaand us.

  She cheered up however when we reminded her how much nicer it would bethan a poky little house in a back street at Kirke, or, worse still,away in some other place altogether, among strangers. And when she saidsomething about the cold, in case we stayed at the hut through thewinter, Geordie said we could afford plenty of fires as we should haveno rent to pay, and that _he_ was going to be 'stoker' for the wholefamily.

  '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 lazygirl--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 andmother 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 away he had, 'that is one of the things papa and I have settled about. Weare rigging up a room for Barnes, much nearer than the Lodge--the oldwoodman's hut within a stone's throw of _our_ hut, Ida, so that awhistle would bring him in a moment. He will still live at the Lodge foreating, you see, but he will come round first thing and last thing. He'sas proud as a peacock; he thinks he's going to be a kind of RobinsonCrusoe; it will be quite a nice little room; there is even a fireplacein it. He says he won't need coals; there's such lots of brushwoodabout.'

  '_I_ have been thinking of that,' I said eagerly. 'It would seem muchmore 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 ofHoskins's 'kitchen,'--I would much rather have had a gypsy fire with apot hanging on three iron rods, the way gypsies do, or are supposed todo,--'better than brushwood, fir cones. They do smell so delicious whenthey 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 thewood.'

  ORDERING DENZIL ABOUT AS USUAL.]

  They--the two little ones--were of course in tremendous spirits aboutthe whole thing,--such spirits that they could not even look sad forvery long when at last--about three weeks after the days I have justbeen describing--the sorrowful morning arrived on which dear papa had toleave us. Esme cried loudly, as was her way; Denzil, more silently andsolemnly, as was his; but an hour or two afterwards we heard the littlebutterfly laughing outside in the garden and ordering Denzil about asusual.

  'Never mind,' said mamma, glancing up from the lists of all sorts ofthings she was already busy at and reading what was in my mind, 'ratherlet us be glad that the child does not realise it. She is very young; itdoes not mean that she is heartless,' and mamma herself choked down hertears and turned again to her writing-table.

  I too had done my best not to cry, though it was _very_ difficult. Ithink 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, forthe climate was a bad one, and it was not the safest season by anymeans. All these, and then the possibility of great disappointment whenhe got there--of finding that, after all, the discovery of things goingwrong had come too late to put them right, and of all that would followthis--the leaving our dear, dear home, not for a few months, or even ayear, but for _always_.

  It would not do even to think of it. And I had promised papa to be braveand cheerful.

  By this time I must explain that the Hut--from now I must write it witha capital, as mamma did in her letters: 'The Hut, Eastercove' lookedquite grand, we thought--was ready for us to move into. Our tenants wereexpected at the house in a week or ten days, and we were now to leave itas soon as we could.

  A great part of the arranging, carting down furniture, and so on hadbeen done, but it had been thought better to put off our actually takingup our quarters in our quaint new home till after papa had gone. _He_said it would have worried him rather if we had left sooner, but I knowthe truth was, that he thought the having to be very busy, in a bustlein fact, at once on his going, would be the best for us all--mammaespecially.

  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 partitionswere 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 still _heaps_ to be done, and seen to by ourselves, which nowork-people could do properly. And besides the arranging at the Hut ofcourse, there was a great deal for mamma to settle at the house, so asto leave everything nice for the people who were coming.

  That afternoon, I remember, the afternoon of the day papa left, we wereat the Hut till dark, working as hard as we could, even the little oneshelping, by running messages and fetching and carrying. And by the timewe went home we were very tired and beginning to find it very difficultto look on the bright side of things.

  'I don't believe it will ever be really comfortable for mamma,' saidGeordie in the growly tone he used when he was anxious or unhappy. 'It'sjust a horrid business altogether. I don't believe papa will be able toget things right, out at that old hole of a place, and even if hedoesn't get ill, as he very likely will, he'll only come home to leaveit for good--I mean we'll have to sell Eastercove. I'm almost sorry wedid not go away now at once and get it over.'

  I glanced before us. Mamma was some little way in front--I could justsee her dimly, for it was dusk, with Denzil and Esme, one on each side;Esme walking along soberly for once, and I caught snatches of mamma'svoice coming back to us, for there was a light, though rather chillyevening breeze, blowing our way. I could hear that she was talkingbrightly 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 thewind is not the other way. I would not like her to hear you talking likethat, within a few hours of papa's going.'

  It was not often--very, very seldom indeed--that I felt it my place toblame good old Dods; and honestly, I don't think I did it or meant it inany 'superior' way. I am sure I did not, for the words had scarcelypassed my lips before they seemed to m
e to have been unkind. Geordie wastired; he had been working very hard the last few days, and even astrong boy may feel out of heart when he is tired.

  'I don't know what _I_ should do, not to speak of mamma,' I went on, 'ifyou got gloomy about things. We all depend on you so,' and for a momentor 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 themost comfortable thing in the world when you are out walking, and ittilts 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 verysorry. 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, asthey are apt to do when they are tired. We none of us spoke much therest of the way home, but Geordie said one or two little things abouthow comfortable the Hut was getting to look and so on, which _I_understood, and which prevented poor mamma's suspecting that he was atall in low spirits.

  When people really _try_ to do right, I think outside things often cometo help them. That very evening we were cheered and amused by a letterwhich had arrived by the second post while we were all out--a quiteunexpected letter.

  It was from a cousin of ours, a girl, though a grown-up one, whom wewere very fond of. She was _almost_ like a big sister, and her name wasTheresa. She was generally called 'Taisy' for short. I have not spokenof her before; but, indeed, when I come to think of it I have not spokenof any of our relations, I have been so entirely taken up with the Hut.We had however none _very_ near. Taisy was almost the nearest. She livedwith her grandmother, who was papa's aunt, so Taisy was really onlysecond cousin to us children.

  She was now about seventeen, and she was an orphan. Many people like herwould have been spoilt, for old Aunt Emmeline adored her and gave hernearly everything she could possibly want. But Taisy wasn't a bitspoilt.

  She often came to stay with us, and one of the smaller parts of our bigtrouble was that we could not look forward to having her _this_ year, atany rate. Papa had written to Lady Emmeline to tell her of what hadhappened; 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 beingable to have her--that he did so.

  And he had had a very kind letter back from his aunt. She wished shecould help him, but though she was comfortably off, her money was whatthey call 'tied up,' somehow, and Taisy would have none of _hers_ tillshe was twenty-one. Besides, papa was not the sort of man to take orexpect help, while he was strong and active and could work for ushimself, and it was the kind of trouble in which a little help wouldreally have been no use--a large fortune was at stake.

  Taisy had not written; she had only sent loving messages to us all, andsomething about that 'by hook or by crook' she must see us before thesummer 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 wonderingwhat she _could_ mean.

  'Ever since I heard from grandmamma of your worries, dear auntie,' shewrote,--I must explain that Taisy always called papa and mamma uncle andaunt, though they were really only cousins,-'I have been thinking andthinking about how I could still manage to pay you a visit. I reallycannot face the idea of all the long summer without seeing you.'

  'It _is_ very dull for her at Longfields,' said mamma, interruptingherself in the reading aloud the letter to us. 'Aunt Emmeline never hascared much to have visitors, though she is a wonderfully strong andactive old lady. And now that Taisy is giving up regular lessons, itwill be still duller. But it can't be helped, I suppose. Yet I do wonderwhat the child has in her head,' and she went on reading.

  'And, once I was with you, I am _sure_ I 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.'

  'What _can_ she mean?' said Geordie, looking up with a puzzled face.

  'Of course about a balloon is quite a joke, isn't it?' I said, though Ispoke rather doubtfully, not knowing much about balloons!

  'Of course,' said Geordie, in a superior tone. 'Besides, there is nodifficulty about her getting to us. The railway and the roads are notblocked up because of our troubles. The thing is, that there is nowhereto put her if she did come.'

  'No,' I agreed, running over the rooms at the Hut in my mind; 'we arequite closely enough packed as it is. There isn't any possible cornerfor another bed even.'

  'Unless,' said Geordie slowly,--'unless you would let me really campout, mamma? I could rig up a little tent, or--I wouldn't much mindsleeping in Barnes's hut?'

  'No, no,' mamma replied decidedly. 'I could not allow anything of thekind. Our living at the Hut is only possible because it is _not_ to belike rough camping out, but as healthy and "civilised" as if we were ina house. So put that out of your head, my dear boy. I could not riskyour catching cold, or anything of that sort. Remember, I feelresponsible to your father in _my_ way for you all, just as you two bigones feel so for me,' she added with one of her own dear smiles.

  'And then, Dods,' I said, 'it wouldn't be safe--I know _I_ wouldn't feelsafe--without having you actually in the house, even though Barnes'shut 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 wasquite an amusement to us that first evening of papa's being away. And itwas worth wondering about, for Taisy was a very clever girl--what iscalled '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 shenever has headaches or neuralgia or horrid things like that. And yet sheis _so_ kind--I remember that time I sprained my ankle. She was sogood.'

  The next few days were so busy, however, that all thought even of Taisyand her balloon went out of our heads. I only remember packings andunpackings and arranging and rearrangings, all in a jumble together,ending, nevertheless, in a great deal of satisfaction. The afternoon wewent to the Hut 'for good,' it really looked nice enough for us to feelit, 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 thetenants, having gone through a magnificent spring cleaning. But our ownlittle belongings were absent, and such of the rooms as were quite inorder, to our eyes looked bare and unfamiliar, so that we were not sorryto be actually settled at the Hut.

  The evenings were still a little chilly, which I, for one, did notregret, as it gave an excuse for nice bright fires in the sitting-roomsand mamma's bedroom. And the children had already picked up a good lotof fir cones, so that the pleasant scent of the trees seemed to beinside as well as out of doors.

  'It _is_ cosy, isn't it, mamma?' I said, as we stood for a minute or twoin what was now the little drawing-room; 'and oh, _aren't_ you glad notto be starting on a railway journey to some strange place, or evendriving to that little house at Kirke which you told me about as thebest we could have got?'

  'Yes, indeed, darling,' mamma replied. 'And I am _so_ glad to be able todate my first letter to papa from the Hut. I must make time to write tohim to-morrow morning; it will just catch the mail.'

  'And to-night,' I went on,
'you must rest. There isn't really very muchmore to do, is there? Not at least anything that we need hurry about.'

  'No,' said mamma, looking round. But she spoke rather doubtfully, and Ifelt that she was longing to get everything into perfectly 'apple-pieorder,' though what that means I have never been able to understand, foras 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,' shewent on. 'I am not going there at all for a day or two, and then just togive a look round and pay the wages owing till the Trevors come.'

  The Trevors were our tenants--a mother and an invalid son, and anot-very-young daughter--and several of our servants were staying onwith 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 ownclothes will take some time to arrange, and I must not expect Hoskins tobe everywhere at once.

  'I will do _lots_, mamma,' I said. 'You don't know what I can do when Iregularly set-to, and I promise you I won't open a story-book till theboxes are unpacked and arranged,' though I gave a little silent sigh asI said this. There seemed such heaps to unpack, for you see we had hadto 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 andcoats and things last, that hitherto we should have given away without asecond thought to those whom they might be of use to. And in my secretheart I was trembling a little at the idea that perhaps one of thethings 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 todo _everything_! And I knew it was a case of just spending the veryleast we could--without risking health or necessary comforts--till papacame home again, or at least till he got _some_ idea of what the futurewas likely to be.

  But for the moment it was worse than foolish to go on looking forward,when the _present_ was pretty clearly to be seen. And just then Esmecame dancing in to tell us that tea was ready in the dining-room.

  'Quite ready and getting cold. So come quick,' she said.