The Boys And I Part 8

Partridge very much. "Yes, Tom, go back to your own bed." Tom looked at me in surprise, but prepared to obey me, nevertheless. "But," I added, turning fiercely to Mrs. Partridge, "it isn't to please _you_ he should get into his own bed--it's only because mother told us always to stay quiet in the morning before Pierson came to dress us, and we mean to do everything mother told us."

"And I should like to know what your mother would say to hearing you talk like that?" said Mrs. Partridge. "It's not at all like a pretty behaved young lady to fly into such tempers to any one as kind as can be to you--your uncle should be told of it, but I've never been one to make mischief. Now you must all three lie still and make no noise, till Sarah can find time to come up and dress you."

"I want to det up now," said Racey undauntedly. "I'se been awake never so long."

"You can't get up now, my dear," said Mrs. Partridge. "The house has been upset enough already--the whole work can't be stopped to get you up and for my part I don't hold with such early gettings up, and wanting your breakfasts so ridiculous soon."

She turned and left the room, and for a minute or two none of us spoke.

Then Tom, who after all had not decamped to his own quarters, having stopped short in excitement at my speech to Mrs. Partridge, which had also had the effect of putting him out of her head--Tom gave me a push, and said inquiringly,

"Audrey?"

"Well, Tom?"--I dare say I spoke impatiently.

"Audrey, speak. What are you thinking?"

"I don't know what I'm thinking," I said. "At least I do, but I think I'd better not say it."

"Why not?" said Tom.

"Because it's no good."

"Audrey," said Tom again, "you're rather cross, and I'm _so_ unhappy."

"Oh, _dear_ Tom," I said, "don't speak like that. It's just because I love you so, and I can't bear you to be unhappy, that I'm cross."

"_I'm_ unhappy too," said Racey's high-pitched little voice from the corner of the room. "I'm vrezy unhappy, and I do so want to det up."

A sudden idea struck me. "You shall get up," I said. "I'm sure mother never would have wanted us to stay in bed hours after we were awake.

Jump up, Racey, and Tom too; _I_'ll dress you."

[Ill.u.s.tration: For his hair was very tuggy this morning.]

Up jumped both boys with the greatest delight, and we set to work. There was no hot water! That we had quite forgotten, and it was too cold to wash properly without it, even though we always had a cold bath too.

Racey made rather a fuss, but Tom was very good, and at last we got the dressing finished without any worse misfortunes than the breaking of Tom's comb, for his hair was very tuggy this morning, and the spilling a great lot of water on the floor. This last catastrophe troubled us very little, for the carpet was not very new or pretty, but we were sorry about the comb, as now that Pierson was away we did not know to whom to apply for a new one! Just as I was telling the boys to go into the day nursery and warm themselves at the fire, forgetting that no one had come to make it, a knock came to the door and in marched Sarah, looking decidedly cross. Her face cleared, however, when she saw us all dressed.

"So you've been and dressed yourselves," she said. "Well, that's very clever of you, though I don't know what Mrs. Partridge will say."

But it was something for Sarah to be pleased, and she set to work to make the fire with good-will, for we were very cold and our hands were blue and red.

We were helping Sarah to the best of our ability, when stump, stump, up-stairs again came Mrs. Partridge, and oh, how cross she was when she saw that her orders had been disobeyed; only, fortunately, it all fell on me. I was a naughty disobedient child--it was all I that made my brothers naughty--it was high time some one took me in hand, that was clear. What she meant by this last remark I did not quite understand, and I dare say that was a good thing, for if I had thought it was any reflection on _mother_, I should have answered in a way which would not have made Mrs. Partridge think any better of my temper.

As it was, I answered nothing. If I had spoken at all I should have burst out crying, and that I was determined Mrs. Partridge should not see me do. So when she was tired of scolding she went away, and Sarah, who had made an excuse of fetching our breakfast to get out of the way, came back again in a few minutes with the tray.

I was too angry and unhappy to eat, but Tom and Racey, though looking somewhat soberer than usual, ate with a good appet.i.te. Towards the end of breakfast I found I had no handkerchief, and I jumped up and went to the chest of drawers in the other room to fetch one. There a great surprise met me. Pinned to the top handkerchief of the little pile was a note addressed to me, "Miss Audrey Gower." I knew at once what it was.

It was from poor Pierson--her only way of saying good-bye. Though I was nearly nine years old I could not read writing very well, and this Pierson knew, for she had written it very large and plain. Poor thing, it must have taken her a good while, and late at night, too, when she had all her packing to do. I tore open the envelope. This was the little letter. Oh, how pleased I was to see it!

"MY DEAR MISS AUDREY, AND MY DEAR LITTLE BOYS,--I am half broken-hearted to go away like this and leave you with strangers, but what can I do? My poor mother is dying, and begging for me to come. I would promise to come back for a week or two any way, but I am afraid Mrs. Partridge will make your uncle think it better not. But I beg you, dear Miss Audrey, to try to write to me, and tell me how you all are, and do not be afraid to say if you are unhappy, for I would try to do something; and any way I could write to your mamma.

"Your faithful nurse, "ESTHER PIERSON."

I read it over two or three times. Then I took it into the nursery where the boys were calling for me, and read it over again, word by word, to Tom. He listened with his big eyes staring up at me.

"How nice of Pierson," he said at the end. "Audrey, won't you write and tell her how _horrid_ Mrs. Partridge has been?"

"We must think about it," I said, solemnly.

"Would you know how to _dreck_" (he meant direct) "the letter?"

continued Tom.

I hadn't thought of that; and my face fell. But Pierson had had more foresight than I had supposed.

"Cray was the name of the village--near--near--oh, I can't remember near where," I was saying, when Tom, who had been examining the letter with great attention, exclaimed, "Audrey, there's more writing here on the other side that you haven't seen--C. R.--I believe it's the 'drecktion."

And so it was.

"ESTHER PIERSON, _Flure's Cottage_, _Cray_, _Near Coppleswade_.

is my adress," Pierson had added. Of course there was only one _d_ in "address."

"What a good thing, isn't it?" said Tom. But just then we heard some one coming up-stairs. In a fright I stuffed the letter into the front of my dress; it was the first time in my life I had ever had anything to conceal, and I felt at a loss how to do it. The steps turned out to be Sarah's.

"Miss Audrey," she said. "You've to go down-stairs, please, to your uncle's study. He wants to see you before he goes out, and he's in a great hurry."

"Me alone?" I said.

"Yes, Miss; nothing was said about the young gentlemen; and I'm sure,"

she added, in a lower tone, "I'm sure Mrs. Partridge has been making mischief. But never you mind, Miss, speak up for yourself."

I did not answer, but ran quickly down-stairs.

I was not the least afraid, but I had very bitter feelings in my heart.

Why should I be called naughty, and disobedient, and impertinent, and all that, for the first time in my life? I knew I had sometimes a rather cross temper, but when mother had spoken to me about it, I had always felt sorry, and wished to be better. And since we had come to London, I had really tried to be good, and to carry out what mother had said about making the boys happy, and being kind to them. No one had any right to begin scolding me when I had _not_ been naughty. This was what I was saying to myself as I ran down-stairs, and though I was not afraid, yet the feeling of Pierson's letter was a great comfort to me. I was not altogether friendless.

When I knocked at the study door, Uncle Geoff called out, "Come in," at once. He was standing on the hearth-rug, all ready--his coat b.u.t.toned up to the top--to go out. I saw at once that he was quite different from the day before.

"Audrey," he said, as soon as he saw me, "I do not want to be severe or harsh to you, but it is necessary you should understand me. And it is better you should do so at once. I wish to be kind to you, as kind as I can be, but you, on your side, my little girl, must do your part, and that part is _perfect obedience_. I am very little at home, as you know, and I cannot constantly direct you and the boys myself, but in my absence you must obey Mrs. Partridge, who is very kind, and good, and knows what is right for children. It is unfortunate that your nurse has had to leave so suddenly, though, if it was _she_ that put it into your mind to disobey Mrs. Partridge, it is better she has gone. Now you understand me-- I expect that you will do your best to-day to be good and obedient, and to give as little trouble as you can."

He turned as if to leave the room--he did not seem to expect an answer.

Words were burning on my lips-- I wanted to ask him if he wished us to listen to unkind remarks on mother, and unkind reproaches for the trouble our coming had given, from Mrs. Partridge, who he said was so good. I wanted to tell him that we _had_ tried to be good, hard as it was on us to be sent suddenly among strangers-- I wanted to tell him that I wished to do _everything_ mother had said, that I wished to please him, and to love him, but when I looked up at his face, and saw the stern expression it had, I felt it was no use, and I too turned away.

But just at the door Uncle Geoff stopped and looked back. I suppose the hard set look of unhappiness on my childish face touched him. He turned, and stooping down put his arm round me, and kissed me.

"Don't look so miserable, Audrey," he said. "_That_ is not what I wish at all." I looked up at him again--his face looked ever so much kinder.

I was on the point of saying some nice words, like "Uncle Geoff, I do want to be good," or something of that sort, which perhaps would have helped to make him find out that Mrs. Partridge was really not managing us as he wished, when suddenly I felt the paper--Pierson's letter I mean--rustle a little under the pressure of his hand. I felt my face grow red. Suppose he found the letter and took it away? I was so little accustomed to conceal anything that I felt quite guilty, and in my fear I drew away a little from his arm. He said nothing, but he must have been chilled, for he took away his arm, and turned to go, and as he left the room, I was almost sure that I heard him say in a half whisper, "Strange child! I am afraid we shall have trouble with her."