The House That Grew. Molesworth Mrs.
second-hand things, which is more than can be said for most box-rooms or lumber-rooms, I fancy.
And the moving these things would be no expense, and there would be no travelling expenses for any of us, and – the last idea that came into my head was the best of all. The old parish room! The iron room that Mr. Lloyd had told papa about the afternoon before! They wanted to get rid of it and would sell it for almost nothing. Even if 'almost nothing' meant – I could not guess how much or how little – a few pounds, perhaps – it would be far, far less than the rent of a house, however small, and it would make into two or even three little rooms, easily. Perhaps it would be enough just to divide it by screens or curtains, perhaps —
Oh, the 'perhapses' that came crowding into my head when I had thought of the old parish room! I could scarcely lie still another minute – I felt in such a desperate hurry to tell Geordie of the wonderful thought that had come to me. But it was still far from getting-up time; I knew it would be very selfish and unkind to wake up poor old Dods in what would seem to him the middle of the night, for he was a very sound sleeper, and had hard enough work to get his eyes properly open by seven o'clock.
No – there was nothing for it but to lie still and be as patient as I could. It would be interesting to watch the light growing stronger and changing; it was already doing so in a curious way, as the cold, thin moonshine gave place to the sun, even then
warmer somehow in its tone than the fullest moon-rays ever are.
'Yes,' I thought, 'they have met and passed each other by now, I should think. I wonder – if – '
Strange to say, I cannot finish the sentence, for I don't know what I was going to wonder! In spite of all my eagerness and excitement I knew nothing more, till – the usual summons, in Hoskins's voice —
'Miss Ida, my dear, it's the quarter-past. You were sleeping soundly – I could scarcely find it in my heart to awake you. But it's Sunday morning, and you know it doesn't do to be late – and a beautiful spring morning too as ever was seen.'
I could scarcely believe my ears.
'Oh, Hoskins!' I exclaimed, 'I am sleepy. I was awake a good bit quite early, and I had no idea I had gone off again. I was so awake, thinking.'
The talking thoroughly roused me, and almost at once all the 'thinking' came back to me, so that by the time I was dressed, even though Sunday morning dressing needed a little more care and attention than every day's, I had got it all clear and compact and ready, as it were, for Geordie's cool inspection.
To my great satisfaction he had had a good fit that morning of getting up promptly and being down the first after me, instead of, as often happened, the last after everybody.
'Geordie,' I exclaimed, when I caught sight of him standing at the dining-room window, staring out – or perhaps I should say' gazing,' for staring is an ugly word, and the garden that morning was looking so particularly pretty – 'Geordie, I am just bursting to talk to you. Is it any use beginning before papa and mamma come down, do you think?'
Geordie looked at the clock on the mantelpiece.
'Yes,' he said; 'we have five minutes, or ten perhaps. Is it anything particular?'
'Of course it is,' I replied, 'or I wouldn't say I was bursting to tell it you. And I think and hope it is something that will please you very much. You are to listen well and not interrupt me and say "nonsense," before you have taken it into your mind and thought it over.'
I saw he already was looking interested, and I was glad of it. His face had been so sad when he first turned at the sound of my voice, and I well knew why. I can almost always understand Geordie and very often guess what he is thinking of. He has such dear blue eyes, but they are the kind that can look very melancholy sometimes. I do hope he will have a happy life when he grows up – I am pretty sure he will deserve it. Even now that he has been a good long while at school – big public school, I mean – he is just the same to me as ever. When he comes home for the holidays it seems as if he had never been away.
'I won't interrupt you – or say "nonsense," if I can help it,' he answered, with a little fun in his voice and smile coming in his eyes.
Then I told him. I need not repeat all I said, as I have written a lot of it already. But it must have been rather hard for Geordie not to interrupt me. It all bubbled out so fast – all the splendid ideas and good reasons and perhapses – one on the top of the other, so that if he hadn't been pretty well accustomed to my ways he could scarcely have understood. It was quite interesting and exciting, as I went on, to watch the expression in his face – his cheeks grew pink, then crimson, and his eyes brighter and brighter. I soon saw I was not going to be snubbed.
But real want of breath, and then the sound of mamma's skirts coming across the hall with a pretty soft rustle – I don't think any one else's skirts move so nicely; they seem to match her, not like that noisy flustering that is like saying, 'Here I am; I expect to be attended to' – made me stop at last. There was only time for George to whisper —
'It's a wonderful idea, Ida. I'll think a lot and then we'll talk about it, by ourselves, first, of course.'
'We mustn't think about it in church,' I replied in the same tone; 'we must try, I suppose, Dods, not to think of it in church – part of the time, at least. I don't see that it would matter so much during the first lesson, and perhaps one of the psalms, if they are very long ones.'
'No – o, perhaps not,' he said, and then we both ran forward to kiss mamma.
She looked at us, and I saw her face brighten when she saw that ours were not very sad or dull. I think she had been afraid that in his wish to help her, papa had put too much of the burden on us two, considering how young we were then.
'My darlings!' she said, in a rather low voice, 'my own brave boy and girl,' and I am almost sure the tears came into her eyes. But the smiles came too.
'What a lovely day it is going to be!' she went on, as she glanced out of the window. 'I am so glad. We must put cares aside as much as we can and try to be happy and hopeful.'
'Yes, dear mamma,' I answered cheerfully, and with all the delightful exciting ideas in my head, it was quite easy to be bright, as you can understand, 'yes, we are going to have a nice day. Geordie and I' – I glanced at him; he had not exactly said so, but I knew he would not mind, – 'Geordie and I want to go down to the hut very soon after luncheon, if you say we may, to get it all ready for you and papa and the little ones, to come to tea.'
'All right,' said mamma, though I saw a tiny shadow cross her face as I spoke, and I knew she was thinking to herself that very likely it would be our last Sunday afternoon tea-party for a very long time, perhaps for ever, as far as the hut was concerned! But these solemn kinds of 'perhapses' are always in our lives, and if we were always thinking of them, it would be more than our minds and hearts could bear. We should not forget them, but I am sure we are not meant to be gloomy about them. Still, at the best, even if my grand plan was carried out, there was plenty to be sad about, I knew. Poor papa's going so far away, first and worst of all, and worst of course for mamma, for though we loved him dearly, she must love him, I suppose, still more.
He came into the room just as these thoughts were flying about my brain. I thought he looked more tired and troubled than mamma – men are not so patient and not always so good at hiding their feelings as some women. At least I think so!
We two, however, were really feeling cheerful, and I think our brightness made it easier for mamma to be, at least, less sad than she would otherwise have been. And I said to myself —
'Papa will cheer up too if he likes our idea, and I really can't see why he should not like it.'
So breakfast got on pretty well on the whole, and as soon as it was over, Dods and I went off for a talk. How we did talk! But first of all – that was so like Dods – he pulled out his watch and looked what o'clock it was.
'It's just half-past nine, Ida,' he said, 'and we must be quite ready by half-past ten. So let's talk till ten, no longer; it always takes you twenty minutes or half an hour to get dressed for church, and you know it vexes papa to be kept waiting. And