The House That Grew

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 she could mean.

'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.'

'It is very 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 giving up 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 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 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 is not to 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 in my way 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 know I wouldn't feel safe – without having you actually 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 is so kind – 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.

'It is cosy, 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't you 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 am so glad 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 spoke rather 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 do lots, 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 enough to 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 do everything! 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 got some idea of what the future was 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 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.

CHAPTER VI
'YOU DO UNDERSTAND SO WELL, MAMMA'

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 different room from 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 when I 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 absolutely alone– 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 when there 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 called Les 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 have remembered 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't it remind you of Les 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 a very tiny 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 – but so far 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,' said mamma. '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 dreamt it 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 a ship, 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 a very big 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 going on it,' 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 who was on 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 particularly interesting in the course of the first few days at the Hut, or rather perhaps, everything was 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 the feeling of 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 we thought we 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 idea mamma shook 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 arrange about 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.

And for my part I was not at all looking forward to my new post of governess!

'It is such a pity,' I thought, 'that we can't have Taisy. She wouldn't have minded teaching the children a bit, and she is so clever. Lots of my own lessons I could have done with her too. And I know the little ones won't obey me; Denzil would, but not Esmé, and she will set him off.'

I suppose my face was looking rather cloudy, for mamma went on again.

'I daresay we shall all feel a little depressed for a time, for we have had a good deal of really tiring work as well as excitement. And the worst of over-excitement, at least for young, strong people, is, that when it is over, everything seems flat, and we find ourselves wishing something else would happen.'

'Yes,' I said; 'that's just what I feel. You do understand so well, mamma.'

'I have a mild piece of excitement in store for you to-day or to-morrow,' mamma went on again. 'I think it is quite time that I called on our tenants. They must be fairly settled by now.'

'I don't see that there was any settling for them to do,' I said. 'You left everything so beautifully neat and nice.'

Somehow I felt a little cross at the poor things!

'They have to unpack what they brought with them,' said Geordie; 'and I'm sure – ' he stopped short.

I knew why he stopped. He thought that what he was going to say might vex me, for, as I think – or hope I have owned – I have a quick temper. But Dods was not famous for 'tact'; that habit of his of stopping short all of a sudden often made me crosser than almost anything he could say.

'It's very rude not to finish your sentence,' I said sharply. 'What are you so sure about?'

'Only that you made fuss enough about our own unpacking,' he replied, 'quite extra from the getting the Hut in order and all that.'

'You are very unfair, and unkind,' I said, feeling as if I should like to cry, for I thought I had been very patient and good-tempered. 'Mamma, don't you think he needn't have said that?'

'He did not want to say it, to give him his due,' said mamma, smiling a little; 'and to give Ida her due,' she went on, turning to Geordie, 'I don't see, my boy, that you needed to think it.'

'Well,' said Dods, and I felt my vexedness begin to go away, 'after all, I don't know that I did. I suppose we've all been rather fussy, though it wasn't in a bad sort of way.'

'No, indeed,' said mamma; 'it was in a very good sort of way. You have all been most helpful; I wish you could have seen my last letter to papa about you.'

After that it would have been impossible to go on being vexed with any one, wouldn't it? I never knew any one like mamma for making horrid feelings go and nice ones come, and yet she is always quite true.

'Then, do you mean that you want me to go with you when you call on the Trevors, mamma?' I asked.

'Yes, I do, rather particularly,' she replied, so of course I said I would be ready whatever time she fixed, though I didn't very much want to go. I was just at the age – I don't think I have quite grown past it even now – when girls hate paying calls, and I could not bear the idea of being received as visitors in our very own house. This was extremely silly of course, as it was such a lucky thing for us to have let it to good, careful people like the Trevors, but I don't think it was an unnatural feeling. And afterwards, poor mamma owned to me that it was something of the same kind that had made her wish to take me with her. It would make her feel less 'lonely,' she thought. Wasn't it sweet of her to think that?

So that afternoon, or the next, I forget which, we found ourselves walking slowly up through the woods to the big house. I felt rather as if it must be Sunday, for it was not often, except on Sundays, that I was in the woods in very neat 'get up,' – proper gloves instead of rough garden ones, and best boots, and hat, and everything like for going to church, or for going a drive with mamma in the victoria.

We did not expect – at least I did not – to find our new acquaintances very interesting. There was nobody young among them, and hearing that they had come to Eastercove principally for health's sake did not sound very lively.

But, after all, something interesting did come of the visit, as I will tell you.

We were ushered into the drawing-room – 'the ladies were at home,' he said – by an oldish man-servant, with a nice face.

Into our own drawing-room – how funny it seemed! And already it did not seem quite our own, not the same. There were little changes in the places of the furniture, and there were unfamiliar odds and ends about, which made it feel strange. I was rather glad that there was no one in the room to receive us, and I squeezed mamma's hand tight, and I am sure she understood, and we both had time to get our breath, as it were, before any one appeared.

When some one did come, nevertheless, we were taken a little by surprise, for she – it was Miss Trevor – entered by the window, and I had been looking towards the door. There are long, low-down windows in the drawing-room, and at one side a terracey sort of walk, which is very pleasant for sitting out on, in summer especially, as it is well shaded.

Immediately I saw her I felt she was nice. She seemed older than mamma, though perhaps she was not so really. Her face was very quiet – that is the best word for it, and though I was so young then and knew so little of life, I felt that it was a face that had grown quiet through goodness. Even now I do not know much of Miss Trevor's history, but mamma has been told enough of it to make her think very highly of her.

There was not the least bit of hardness, scarcely even of sadness in her expression, but just a look – a look that made one feel that she had come through sorrow, and could never care very much about anything for herself again – anything here, I mean.

'I am so sorry,' she said at once, in a nice, hearty way, 'to have kept you waiting. It is such a lovely afternoon that mother and I have settled ourselves outside!'

'Then please don't unsettle yourselves,' said mamma, and I saw a gleam of pleasure creep into Miss Trevor's gray eyes at mamma's pretty voice and manner. 'May we not join Mrs. Trevor on the terrace, for I suppose it is there you are sitting?'

'Yes,' was the reply. 'It is so sheltered, and of course it is still early days for venturing anything of the kind. But mother is quite strong except for rheumatism, and really who could have rheumatism in this dry, fragrant air? We are so delighted with everything about your beautiful home, Mrs. Lanark,' she went on. (It has just struck me that till now I have never said that 'Lanark' is our family name! Really, I am not fit to try to write a story.) 'And you have done so much to make it perfect for us.'

Mamma and I felt repaid for our trouble by this, but before there was time to reply, we were out on the terrace, and Mrs. Trevor coming to meet us. It was not such an easy business for her to do so, as you might think. She had three dogs – darlings, I must own, and not barking, snapping darlings – dancing round her, and she was all twisted about with wool, red and green and white and all colours, unwound from the balls from her knitting. You never saw anything so funny, especially as the doggies, though very good-natured, were very lively

and affectionate, and very spoilt, evidently accustomed to think the wools and the knitting and every bit of dear Mrs. Trevor herself only existed for their benefit. How she managed to keep the wool clean, and to knit the pretty fluffy things she did, I never found out. I really think there was some magic about it, for I never saw her without the strands of it flying loose, and the dogs dancing up and down to catch it!

She was laughing – such a nice laugh.

'Really,' she said, 'you will think me a slave to my pugs, Mrs. Lanark, and I am afraid it is true. Zenia, dear, please untwist me.'

Miss Trevor was evidently pretty well used to doing so, but she laughed too; and mamma and I started forward to help, so between us we managed to get the wool wound up pretty quickly, the doggies standing by more quietly than usual. They were more in awe of Miss Trevor, it was plain to see, than of their actual mistress.