The Boys And I Part 2

When we woke again it was _real_ morning--quite bright and sunny. And mother was standing beside the bedside, and little Racey beside her, looking very smooth and s.h.i.+ny with his clean pinafore and clean face and freshly brushed hair. Till I looked close at mother's face I could have fancied that all the strange news I had heard the night before had been a dream--it did not seem the least possible that it could be true. But alas! her face told that it was. Her eyes looked as if she had not been asleep, and though she was smiling it was a sort of sad smiling that made me feel as if I couldn't help crying.

"Children," she said, "didn't you promise me not to get into each other's beds?"

We both felt rather ashamed.

"Yes, mother," I said, "I know you did, but--"

Tom interrupted me--

"Don't be vexed with Audrey, mother," he said, jumping up and throwing his arms round her neck, "it was most my fault. Audrey wanted to whisper to me. Oh mother," he went on, hugging mother closer and burying his round dark head on her shoulder, "oh mother, Audrey's _told_ me."

Then without another word Tom burst into tears--not loud crying like when he was hurt or angry, but deep shaking sobbing as if his poor little heart was really breaking. And for a moment or two mother could not speak. She could only press him more tightly to her, trying to choke back the tears that she was afraid of yielding to.

Poor Racey stood staring in fear and bewilderment--his blue eyes quite ready to cry too, once he understood what it was all about. He gave a little tug to mother's dress at last.

"Muzzie, what's the matter?" he said.

Mother let go her hold of Tom and turned to Racey.

"Poor little boy," she said, "he is quite frightened. Audrey, I thought you would have understood I would tell the boys myself."

"Oh, I am so sorry," I exclaimed. "I wish I hadn't. But I did so want to speak to somebody about it, and Tom was awake--weren't you, Tom?"

"Yes, I was awake," said Tom. "Don't be vexed with Audrey, mother."

Mother didn't look as if she had the heart to be vexed with anybody.

"I daresay it doesn't matter," she said sadly. "But, Audrey, you need not say anything about it to Racey--it is better for him to find out about it gradually."

After that day things seemed to hurry on very fast. Almost immediately, papa and mother began to prepare for the great changes that were to be.

Our house had a big ticket put up on the gate, and several times ladies and gentlemen came to look at it. Mother did not like it at all, I could see, though of course she was quite nice to the ladies and gentlemen, but the boys and I thought it was rather fun to have strange people coming into the house and looking at all the rooms, and we made new plays about it. I used to be the ladies coming to look, and Tom was the footman to open the door, and Racey, dressed up with one of my skirts, was mother, and sometimes Pierson, showing the ladies the rooms.

Sometimes we pretended they were nice ladies, and then Racey had to smile and talk very prettily like mother, and sometimes they were cross fussy ladies, and then Racey had to say "No, ma'am"--"I'm sure I can't say, ma'am," like Pierson in her grumpiest voice. And one day something very funny--at least long afterwards it turned out to be very funny--happened, when we were playing that way. I must tell you about it before I go on with the straight part of my story.

It was a wet day and no _real_ ladies had been to see the house, so we thought as we had nothing to do we'd have a good game of pretence ones.

Racey had to be Pierson this day (of course Pierson didn't _know_ he was acting her), and we were doing it very nicely, for a dreadfully fussy lady had been only the day before and we had still got her quite in our heads. I--being the lady, you know--knocked at the nursery cupboard door, and when Tom the footman opened it, I stood pretending to look round the entrance hall.

"Dear me, what a _very_ shabby vestibule," I said. "Not _near_ so handsome as mine at Victoria Terrace--quite decries the house. Oh, young man," I went on, pretending to see Tom for the first time, "this house is to be sold, I hear? Its appearance is not what I'm accustomed to, but I may as well give a look round, as I'm here."

And so I went on, finding fault with the dining-room, drawing-room, &c.--Tom giving very short replies, except when a fit of laughter nearly choked him, till I was supposed to have reached the first floor where the imaginary Pierson took me in charge.

"You don't mean to say this is the _best_ bedroom?" I said, "how _very_ small!"

"Yes, ma'am, because you're so very fat. I daresay it _does_ seem small to you," said Racey.

This brilliant inspiration set Tom and me off laughing so that we could hardly speak.

"Oh, Racey," I said, returning to my real character for a minute, "Pierson wouldn't really say that."

"She said she'd have _liked_ to say it to that ugly lady yesterday,"

said Racey. "I heard her telling Banks so, on the stair." (Banks was the name of the real footman.) "She said, 'I'd like to tell that wat'"

(Racey couldn't say "_f_" he always call _fat_, _wat_, and _feet_, _weet_) "'old woman that it's no wonder our rooms isn't big enough for _her_.' And Banks did so laugh."

"Well, go on, Audrey. Perhaps Racey'll think of some more funny things,"

said Tom.

So I proceeded with my inspection of the house.

"What very common papers!" I said, looking up at the walls with an imaginary eye-gla.s.s. "I am always accustomed to a great deal of gold on the papers. It lightens up so well."

"Yes, mum," replied Racey, rather intoxicated by his success, and now drawing wildly on his imagination, "yes, mum, I should think you was becustomed to walls that was made of gold all over, and--and--"

hesitating how to make his sarcasm biting enough, "and floors made of diamonds and pessus stones, and--"

"Racey, hush," said Tom, "you're talking out of the Bible. Isn't he, Audrey?"

I was not quite prepared to give an opinion.

"Pierson doesn't talk like that, any way," I said, without committing myself. "Let's go on about there not being enough rooms for the servants. She did say that."

"And about her pet dogs," suggested Tom.

"Oh yes," I said, in the affected squeaky voice which we imagined to be an exact copy of the way of speaking of the lady who had taken such a hold on our fancy, "oh dear yes--I _must_ have a very good room for my dear dogs. They are never allowed to sleep in a room without a fire, and I am so afraid this chimney smokes."

"No, mum, it's _me_ that smokes, mum, not the chimney, mum. Sometimes I have a cigar, mum, in my room, mum, and a room that's good enough for me must be good enough for your dogs, mum," said Tom, the imaginary Banks.

We all three shouted with laughter at his wit, though poor Banks, the most modest of young men, whose only peculiarity was that in his nervousness he used to say "ma'am" or "sir" with every two words, would have been horrified if he had known how Tom was caricaturing him. We were still laughing when the door opened suddenly and mother with some _real_ ladies, to whom she was showing the house, came in.

There were two ladies--a not very particular one, just rather nice, but we didn't notice her very much, and a much younger one whom we noticed in a minute. It was partly I think because of her pretty hair, which was that bright goldy kind that looks as if the sun was always s.h.i.+ning on it. Mine is a _little_ like that, but not so bright as aun--oh, I forgot; you wouldn't understand. And her hair showed more because of her being all dressed in black--regular black because of somebody belonging to her being dead I mean. She came last into the room, of course that was right because she was youngest, and mother came in first to open the door like--I can remember quite well the way they all stood for a minute.

"This is the nursery, I see," said the nothing particular lady. "Well, with me it would not be that, as I have no children. But it would make a nice morning-room--it must be a bright room on a sunny day."

"Yes," said mother, "that is why we chose it for a nursery. It is a pity for you to see the house on such a dull day--it is such a bright house generally--we have liked it very much."

Mother spoke sadly--I knew the tone of her voice quite well. We all three had of course stopped playing and stood round listening to what was said. We must have looked rather funny--Racey with a skirt of mine and a white ap.r.o.n of Pierson's, Tom with a towel tied round him to look like Banks in the pantry, and I with an old shawl and a bonnet very much on one side, with a long feather, which we had got out of our "dressing-up" things. We were so interested in listening to mother and in looking at the ladies, particularly the golden-haired one, that we quite forgot what queer figures we were, till the young lady turned towards us.

"These are your little children," she said, with a smile--a rather sad smile--to mother. "They are playing at dressing-up, I see."

"We're playing at ladies coming to see the house," I said, coming forward--I never was a shy child--"There have been such a lot of ladies."

Mother turned to the young lady.

"It is perhaps well that they should be able to make a play of it," she said.

"Yes," said the young lady very gently, "I remember being just the same as a child, when once my mother had to go away--to India it was--I was so pleased to see her new trunks and to watch all the packing. And now--how strange it seems that I could have endured the idea of her going--now that I shall never have her again!"

Her lip quivered, and she turned away. Mother spoke to her very, very kindly--the other lady, the nothing particular one was examining the cupboards in the room and did not notice.

"Have you lost your dear mother?" she--our mother, I mean--asked the young lady.

She could not speak for a moment. She just bowed her head. Then touching her dress she said in a sort of whisper, "Yes; quite lately. She died in London a fortnight ago. I have neither father nor mother now. I am staying for a while with my cousin."