Kitabı oku: «The House That Grew», sayfa 6

Geordie did not speak. He has better eyes than I – I have always been a little near-sighted – and he stood there gazing before him with an odd expression creeping over his face. He saw – what I did not – a head, or part of one, poked out of the window at the back of the strange vehicle.

'Geordie,' I said at last, 'what are you staring at so? What do you think it is? Oh!' as I suddenly caught sight of a new feature in the mystery, 'I do believe the thing is coming down here, and not going to the big house at all.'

For there was a side road out of the drive just about the part that the strange carriage or waggon had now got to, which led in our direction.

'Yes,' said Geordie, turning to me, and speaking very slowly and distinctly, though there was a twinkle in his eyes, which rather spoilt the solemnity of his tone, 'you are right, Ida. I will tell you what it is – it is the balloon.'

Now indeed it was I who stared!

What could he mean?

Did balloons come in vans, and what had we to do with them? It was not for a moment or two that I remembered our joke about Taisy, – that she meant to astonish us by coming down in a balloon or something wonderful and original of that kind, from her mysterious hints in her letter to mamma.

And then I seemed to understand it all, almost better than Dods did. It quite took my breath away.

'Come, come, Dods!' I cried, setting off as I spoke, 'let's run to meet her. Oh, Taisy, Taisy, you funny girl! Oh, how delighted I am!'

We ran so fast that we reached the waggon almost before the driver and horses – there were two – seemed fairly launched on the side road, and in time to hear an eager voice from within calling out, 'All right, straight on, now. There is plenty of room.'

It was Theresa of course, but just at first she did not see us. She was leaning out on the other side to make the driver hear. But she turned, fast enough, when our shouts reached her, though she did not jump down, as we half expected.

'I can't very well get out,' she said. 'I'm so packed in, and there are some breakable things. But I'll manage it in a minute. Yes, yes – it's I myself! I've come to stay with you, though I have not been invited. And – you'll understand directly, I've brought my house – or rather my room – with me like a snail, so auntie can't turn me away again.'

She was so excited and delighted with herself, and we were so excited and delighted too, that we could scarcely speak for laughing. We did not let her get out; she was so packed in, as she said, but we walked by the door, she talking as hard as she could, for her vehicle was lumbering along at a foot's pace.

'Yes,' she said, in answer to our eager questions; 'I've been travelling like this since ten o'clock. No, not quite like this – we did trot on the high road. The waggonette – '

'Waggonette,' interrupted George, 'I should call it a – waggon and a half!'

'Well, never mind about that. Call it an omnibus if you like. Anyway, it started yesterday, and spent the night at Wetherford. Granny wanted me to come all the way to Kirke by train and to write to tell you, which would have spoilt the fun. So I got her to let me '('to let you indeed, Miss Taisy,' thought I to myself, though I did not say so; 'I know better. You said sweetly, "Granny, dear, I just must;" and she said, "Well, well, my darling, if you must, you must, I suppose") – 'to let me come to Wetherford this morning with her maid, and to meet old Dawson' (the driver) 'there, and come on as you see. I had hard work to find room for myself inside, and I did begin to think we should never get here! But the evenings are long now, and it's been a lovely day; everything's dry and ready – bedding and all. There'll be plenty of time to unpack, and Dawson is to stay the night at Kirke, and ride home on one horse, leading the other.'

'And leaving the waggon,' I said, rather stupidly I must own; I think I was really feeling rather bewildered with the excitement and laughing and Taisy's flow of explanation.

She burst out laughing again at this.

'Of course,' she said. 'If I didn't keep my house, I might as well go back again. But do let us hurry on to tell auntie all about it.'

I think in her heart of hearts poor Taisy was feeling a tiny atom anxious as to what mamma would think of it all. But she need not have done. Mamma understood her so well and trusted her good sense as well as her affection, in spite of dear Taisy's rather wild ways sometimes.

She – mamma, I mean – was sitting quietly where we had left her, reading, in the new chair. And it was nice to see the bright look of pleasure which came over her face when she realised that it was Taisy, really Taisy, and not an 'optical illusion,' who stood before her and then hugged and kissed her as no illusion could have done.

'But, my child,' said she, 'where – '

'Where are you going to put me?' interrupted our new guest; 'look, auntie, look up and see,' and she pointed to the van, which was just coming in sight again. 'I have brought my house with me.'

Mamma's face looked completely puzzled now.

'I will explain,' Theresa went on, and indeed George and I wanted this part of it explained as much as mamma did. 'That lovely old thing that's lumbering along is Granny's discarded luggage-waggonette. It hasn't been used for centuries; it is really a small omnibus more than a waggonette. I ferreted it out in one of the coach-houses, where I was poking about with a vague idea that I might find something of the kind to make it possible for me to come to you after all. And I got the coachman to help me. We had it thoroughly dried and aired, and the seats at one side taken out – and a friend of the coachman's, who is a clever carpenter, has fitted it up. You will see. There is a table that slips down when not wanted, and a frame in one corner to hold a basin and ewer, and hooks for hanging things, and a tray like a deep drawer under the seat that's to be the bed. Oh, it's lovely! and really as good as a cabin on board ship,' and Taisy stopped to take breath.

'And did Aunt Emmeline know about it?' asked mamma.

'She gave me leave to do what I liked with the old thing,' said Taisy; adding candidly, 'I did not tell her what I was doing till it was all ready. She thought I was fixing it up for photographing, I think. But in the end she was nearly as excited about it as I was, and she gave me all sorts of things – blankets and pillows and crockery and little curtains. It's just stuffed with things – inside and out – though I brought as few personal things – clothes, I mean – as possible, for I don't want to crowd you up, you see. I shall have room for everything when it's all unpacked, you will see,' she added, with a touch of apology in her voice.

'Dearest child,' said mamma, 'as if we would mind that, if you were comfortable.'

Taisy's eyes beamed.

'Comfortable,' she repeated; 'that is no word for what I am going to be.'

'And how long may you stay?' asked Geordie.

'As long as you like to have me,' was the reply. 'Granny is expecting her old friend to-morrow, and I know they will be much happier without me. I have a letter from Granny for you, auntie, explaining her plans. But there's no hurry about that. I want to begin unpacking. And what a lovely arrangement all this is!' she went on admiringly, touching the arm of mamma's chair as she spoke, 'nearly as beautiful as my waggon!'

Then the history of Miss Trevor's present had to be related, and all its wonderful perfections exhibited. And then Hoskins appeared with a cup of fresh tea for Miss Theresa, which she offered with a face all over smiles, for Taisy was a great favourite of hers. And 'Miss Theresa' drank the tea, and devoured bread and butter and cake in a most gratifying way; and then she had to run through the Hut, and see all that we had done to it.

So that, after all, it was rather late before we got to the unpacking of the waggon, though Hoskins and Margery and Dawson had already done a good deal.

CHAPTER IX
'THE KIND SEA, TOO, AUNTIE DEAR'

We did get everything unpacked that night, but only in a rough-and-ready way. We should have liked to go on till midnight or later even, working by moonlight, for it was full moon and very clear weather just then, but this mamma would not hear of.

And Hoskins in her sensible way pointed out how much more nicely and neatly we could finish it all by daylight with the straw and packing cloths all tidied away, which she would 'see to' first thing in the morning.

She and mamma had already arranged for Taisy to sleep in my room that night, by Esmé's sleeping with mamma, and by taking out the end of Esmé's cot, to make it longer – long enough after a fashion, for me.

How we laughed, Taisy and I, though any other girl would have been tired after all she had done, and the tiresomely slow drive from Wetherford! Mamma was obliged to knock on the – wall, I was going to say – but of course it was not a wall, only a wooden partition, to tell us to be quiet. I never knew any one with such spirits as Taisy – not only high spirits, but nice ones, for she was never boisterous, and she knew in a moment if you were not inclined for laughing or joking, though her fun was always there, ready to bubble up again at the right moment. She was full of sympathy too, in spite of her cheerfulness; no one could possibly have called her heartless.

Looking back, I can see what a very good thing it was for us all that she came, even for mamma. We were in danger just then of being too much taken up with our own little life – the life of the Hut – which is one kind of selfishness.

And dear mamma in her unselfishness might have got too silent about all she was feeling; she was so afraid of making us young ones melancholy. But I have seen her sitting or standing, when she thought we did not notice, gazing at the sea – gazing, gazing, as if she could scarcely bear it and yet must look at it. The cruel sea, which had taken dear papa so far away! On fine, sunny days I almost think somehow it seemed worse. I know that feeling about the sea myself, as if it were cruel really, below its loveliness and brilliance. And I am sure she said something of this to Taisy, the very day after Taisy came, for I heard her say, though her eyes were full of tears —

'The kind sea, too, auntie dear, which will bring him back again.'

And as for us children, it was just delightful past words to have Theresa. We had been very happy at the Hut already, very busy and interested, but the fun of the life there came with Taisy. She was full of it, though the things we found so amusing are too trifling, even if they would not seem really silly, to write down.

The arranging of her 'house,' as she would call it, was the nicest part of all the arranging we had had to do. We pulled it close up to one side of one of our doors – the 'parish room' doors you understand, where there were no windows, so that the waggon was, so to say, protected by one of the iron walls – I don't know what else to call it, and which also gave the advantage of a tap in the night arousing us at once, in case Taisy felt frightened, which she never did. But the tapping was very convenient all the same, as she could awaken me in the mornings when they got warm enough for very early bathing, without 'disturbing the whole house,' as Hoskins said. And I could tap to her, last thing at night, to wish her good-night.

You never saw a cosier place than we made of it; that first day after it was all arranged, we couldn't leave off admiring it.

There was Taisy's bed along one side, rather a narrow one of course, though not worse than a berth at sea, and looking so bright with the lovely scarlet blankets Lady Emmeline had given her. And in one corner a little frame which held a ewer and basin, and in the other some hooks for hanging things with a red curtain that drew round, and short red curtains to the windows, and a tiny chest of drawers; it was really one end of an old writing-table, or secretaire, to hold gloves and pocket-handkerchiefs and belts and small things like that. Then under the bed there was a long low trunk, what is called a cabin portmanteau, I believe, which held Taisy's best dresses, of which she had certainly not brought many, and hooks higher up than the hanging ones, for her hats. You wouldn't believe, unless you have ever been a long voyage – I have, since those days – all that was got into the old omnibus, by planning and ingenuity.

Taisy was as proud of it as if she had made or built, I suppose one should say, the whole carriage; indeed, I think we all were, once we had got everything perfectly arranged. Mamma carried off some of her most crushable things, as she said she had really some spare room in her own cupboards or wardrobes; and I took her best hat, as it had lovely white feathers, which it would have been a thousand pities to spoil, and which there was plenty of space for in the big box where Esmé's and mine were. And then Taisy declared she felt her house quite spacious.

Lady Emmeline had sent several things for us, some especially for mamma herself, which I was particularly glad of, as dear mamma, never thinking of herself and anxious to leave the big house as pretty as usual, had left behind some little things that I am sure she missed. And old Aunt Emmeline and Taisy seemed to have guessed by magic what these were.

'How nice!' I exclaimed, when Taisy had got them unpacked. 'This screen is just like the one you have in the boudoir at home, and cushions – I know you will be glad of some cushions, mamma, though you wouldn't bring any with you.'

'And a couvre-pied,' added Taisy; 'Granny was sure you hadn't got enough "wraps." Nothing will persuade her that it is not always as cold as winter down here.'

'It is most kind of her,' said mamma; 'and I really am very, very pleased to have these things. And – did you know, Ida? – Aunt Emmeline has also sent us two hampers full of all manner of good things to eat – chickens and a turkey, and a ham and pickled tongues, and I don't know all what.'

'Yes,' said Taisy; 'nothing will persuade her either that you are not – ' She stopped suddenly and got rather red.

'I know,' said mamma, laughing, 'that we are not in danger of starvation as well as of cold. You need not mind, Taisy dear – as if anything could offend us that you said or that Aunt Emmeline thought. And of course it is true that we are anxious to spend as little as we can, while things are so uncertain.'

'And then we can't cure hams or pickle tongues like at home,' I added.

So all the kind old lady's gifts were very welcome. I think Hoskins was more pleased with the eatables than with anything.

Things had been nice before, but after Taisy came, we really did enjoy ourselves. She was always planning something amusing or interesting, and mamma declared she had never heard me or Geordie laugh so much in her life. It was very good for Geordie to be 'routed out' a little, as Taisy said. He was inclined to be too serious and anxious, and to overwork, at this time, because of the scholarship, and as I had put it into his head, I was doubly glad of being helped to keep him bright and merry, as I know he worked all the better for it. He was really anxious-minded – not like Denzil, who never laughed and was as solemn as an owl, not because he was anxious, but just because he was too fat and comfortable to worry – poor old Den! – he really is so good-tempered, I don't like laughing at him.

It was very nice too that just about this time came the first really long letter from papa; up to now he had written scarcely more than scraps. And this letter was decidedly more cheerful and hopeful.

He had begun to go into things thoroughly, he said, and had got very good friends to help him, and he was beginning to think that, at worst, it would not turn out too awfully bad. And for this mamma felt very grateful, though she had so bravely prepared for whatever might be to come.

So for a few weeks we went on very contentedly, more than that, indeed – very brightly too. It was, for me, too delightful not to have much governessing to do, for Taisy at once took the most of this on herself. And I assure you, she did keep Miss Esmé in order.

In return for this she joined me in some of my reading with mamma, and she always has said that she learnt more in this way about some lessons than she had ever done before. Mamma is very clever.

We went on, as I said, pretty steadily like this for some weeks till another rather big thing happened – almost as big as the 'descent of the balloon,' which we always called Theresa's arrival.

But before telling about this new event, I must relate a curious thing that happened one day.

It was one afternoon – just after tea – we were still sitting out of doors where we had had tea – mamma in her 'boudoir,' for the days were getting quite long, and we were specially glad to be in the open air as much as possible, for we had had a good deal of rain for nearly a week – mamma was reading, and I think I was too – when Hoskins came out of the house looking rather 'funny' – queer, I mean, as if not quite sure if she were vexed or not.

'If you please, ma'am,' she said, 'there's a gypsy at the back door, and I can't get her to go till she's seen you.'

'A gypsy,' mamma exclaimed in great surprise; 'how has she managed to get inside the grounds? And I did not know there were any in the neighbourhood just now. It is so seldom they come this way too. Taisy,' she went on, looking round, 'you might speak to her for me and ask what she wants.'

But Taisy was not there.

'Miss Theresa has gone into the woods, I think,' said Hoskins; 'I heard her calling to Miss Esmé just after tea-time.'

Mamma and I had not noticed the others going; our books must have been interesting, and time passes quickly in such a case.

'How did the gypsy get through the lodge gates?' mamma repeated.

'That's what I asked her first thing,' Hoskins answered; 'but she did not answer very distinctly. She says she has come a good bit out of her way to see you – there are not any camping about near here. She has a boy with her – perhaps she wants something for him – quite a little fellow. She's a pleasant, civil-spoken woman – indeed, gypsies generally are if they want to get something out of you.'

'Like most people, I am afraid,' said mamma, smiling as she reluctantly prepared to move. 'Perhaps I had better speak to her; it would not do to have her lurking about all night. They are queer people – I should not like to rouse any ill-feeling in a gypsy.'

'Mayn't I come with you, mamma?' I said. 'I have never spoken to a real gypsy.'

Mamma looked at me rather doubtfully.

'Oh yes,' she said; 'but I don't want her to tell your fortune or anything of that kind, Ida, so do not encourage her if she begins about it.'

We made our way through the Hut, followed by Hoskins, to the door at the back, where, as she had said, the strange visitor was standing – Margery, who was washing up (I never saw Margery not washing up, by the bye), was also keeping an eye on the woman, though I could see by the movement of her shoulders that she was giggling.

Mamma went forward.

'What do you want to see me for?' she said gently but rather coldly.

The woman lifted her face – she was not quite as tall as mamma, and looked at her closely, but not rudely. She was older than I had somehow expected. Her skin was very brown, her hair jet-black, her eyes not quite as dark as one imagines a gypsy's must be; I thought to myself that perhaps the very tanned complexion made them seem lighter. She was wrinkled and weather-beaten, but not by any means ugly, though not beautiful, except her teeth, which were extremely white and even.

'Yes, my lady,' she said, 'I did want to see you. I have come far to do so.'

Her accent was peculiar, her voice low, and she talked slowly, almost as if using a foreign language.

'How did you get through the gates?' mamma asked.

The answer was a shake of the head.

'I have not passed through them – not to-day,' she said. 'There are ways – when one is in earnest.'

'I hope you have not broken through the hedges, or over the walls,' said mamma, rather uneasily.

Another shake of the head.

'No, no – have no fear; I have done no harm,' was the reply, and somehow mamma seemed as if she did not like to say any more about it.

'But what do you want to see me for?' she repeated. 'Has it anything to do with the boy? Is he your son, or your grandson?' and she glanced at the little fellow beside the gypsy. A very little fellow he was – dark too, very dark-skinned and grave and rather frightened-looking. He stood there with his eyes cast down, a shock of black hair tumbling over his forehead, so that it was difficult to distinguish the upper part of his face.

Mamma looked at him curiously – afterwards she told me she felt sorry for him, and wondered if the woman was good to him. She – the woman – glanced at him and said something rather sharply in a queer-sounding language, on which the little fellow gave a sort of tug to his cap, though without actually taking it off – meant, of course, for politeness. But he never spoke the whole time they were there.

'No, my lady,' the woman replied, turning again to mamma, – 'no, I have no favour to ask for the child. He is not my son – nor my grandson,' and here she smiled, showing her white teeth; 'I am not quite old enough for that, though I may look it. I wanted to see you for a reason of my own – to do you no harm, you may be sure. And one day you will know the reason. But now,' and she held out her hand, 'you will let me tell your lines? Not much, nor far – I would not ask it. Just a little, and mostly of the past.'

Mamma shook her head.

'Then the young lady's?' said the gypsy, looking at me. Mamma shook her head still more decidedly.

'No, no,' she said; 'I would rather you told mine than hers. Such things make young people fanciful.'

'Then your own, my lady,' said the woman, and again she held out her hand persuasively, – 'just a little.'

I drew nearer.

'Do, mamma,' I whispered; 'she may be offended if you don't.'

Mamma laughed, and held out her right hand.

'Cross it with silver,' said the woman, simply but gravely, as if she were issuing a command. I had my purse in my pocket, and drew it out.

'Give her a shilling,' said mamma. I did so.

Then the gypsy bent over mamma's hand, studying it closely and murmuring to herself.

'The other too,' she then said, without looking up.

Mamma gave it.

'Yes,' said the gypsy, almost as if speaking to herself, – 'yes – you have come through some dangers – water was the worst, but that was long ago. Now water has robbed you of your dearest, but only for a time. It will restore what it has carried away. And you will be happy. You have a brave heart. Strange things have happened of late to you. You have with you an unexpected visitor. And you are going to have another unexpected visit – a shorter one. Show kindness to your guest; it is always well to do so, though you may not care to receive a stranger. And – '

'No,' said mamma, – 'no, my good woman. I really don't want to hear any more. It is getting late, and you say you have come far and this little fellow will be tired. You had better go,' – she drew away her hand as she spoke, though quite gently.

'Very well, my lady,' said the woman, without persisting further; 'and I thank you for your courtesy.'

'Shall I send some one to see you through the lodge gates?' said mamma; but the woman shook her head.

'There is no need,' she said. 'I shall not pass that way,' and she walked off quietly.

Hoskins came forward and stood beside us.

'I declare,' she said, 'she is going by the shore! What a round to get to the high road!'

'Perhaps she is going to meet a boat,' I said. For there were little coves farther on, from where boats were easily launched, and whence an hour or so's rowing would bring them to a small fishing village called Brigsea.

'Very likely,' said mamma; 'that is a good idea and explains the mystery. But she was a queer woman all the same,' and mamma seemed a tiny bit upset.

'She only told you good things, though,' I said. 'I do wonder how she knew about your escape from a great danger by water, long ago.'

'Yes,' said mamma. 'It is very strange how they know things.'

'And about our unexpected visitor,' I went on; 'that meant Taisy, of course. But I wonder who the new one coming can be?'

'Oh, nobody, I daresay,' said mamma. 'Visitors and letters coming are one of their stock prophecies. Still she did not strike me as quite a commonplace gypsy. I wish Taisy had been here to see her too. Where can they all be, I wonder?'

We were not kept uncertain very long. We heard a whoop, followed by the appearance of the two boys, who told us that Taisy and Esmé were coming directly.

'We've all been in the wood,' said Geordie.

'I wish you had been here,' I said. 'There's been a gypsy at the back door,' and I went on to tell him of our strange visitor and what she had said.

Geordie whistled.

'I should have liked to talk to her,' he remarked. 'Did she say how she got into the grounds?'

I shook my head.

'No,' I replied. 'She was very mysterious about it, but she went away in the direction of the shore, so she prob – '

I was interrupted by another whoop, and in a moment or two up came Taisy and Esmé, looking very hot and untidy, but very eager to hear all details of our rather uncanny visitor, as soon as the word 'gypsy' had caught their ears.

And we talked so much about her that at last mamma said we had really better change the subject, or she would begin to wish she had not agreed to see the woman.

'You will all be dreaming about her and fancying she knew much more than she did,' mamma added; and though she smiled and did not seem at all vexed, I somehow felt that she rather wished the gypsy had not come. One little thing which she said helped to explain this.

'I cannot get the small boy out of my mind,' it was. 'She spoke sharply to him, and he seemed frightened. I do hope she is not unkind to him.'

'Oh no,' I said; 'she had not an unkind face at all, though there was something rather —odd– about it, besides her being a gypsy.'

Taisy laughed, and stroked mamma's arm.

'I should think it most unlikely she is unkind to the child,' she said, 'though he is not her son – or grandson! Dear auntie, you are too tender-hearted.'

Just then I heard a sort of giggle from Esmé, who, for a wonder, was sitting quietly with a book in a corner. I felt vexed with her.

'Esmé,' I whispered, 'it's very rude to laugh at anything Taisy says to mamma.'