CHAPTER II.
A HAPPY EVENING.
Haddie and I were not at all sorry to hear that mamma's call atCranston's was not to be a hurried one.
"We don't mind if you are ever so long," I said; "do we, Haddie?"
"No, of course we don't," Haddie agreed. "I should like to spend a wholeday in those big show-rooms of his. Couldn't we have jolly games ofhide-and-seek, Sis? And then riding the lions! I wish you were richenough to buy one of the lions, mamma, and have it for an ornament inthe hall, or in the drawing-room."
"We should need to build a hall or a drawing-room to hold it," saidmamma, laughing. "I'm afraid your lion would turn into a white elephant,Haddie, if it became ours."
I remember wondering what she meant. How could a lion turn into anelephant? But I was rather a slow child in some ways. Very often Ithought a thing over a long time in my mind if I did not understand itbefore asking any one to explain it. And so before I said anything itwent out of my head, for here we were at Cranston's door.
There was only a young shopman to be seen, but when mamma told him sheparticularly wanted to see Mr. Cranston himself, he asked us to step inand take a seat while he went to fetch him.
We passed between the lions. It seemed quite a long time since we hadseen them, and I thought they looked at us very kindly. I was justnudging Haddie to whisper this to him when mamma stopped to say to usthat we might stay in the outer room if we liked; she knew it was ourfavourite place, and in a few minutes we heard her talking to old Mr.Cranston, who had come to her in the inner show-room through anotherdoor.
Haddie's head was full of climbing up onto one of the lions to go aride. But luckily he could not find anything to climb up with, which wasa very good thing, as he would have been pretty sure to topple over, andMr. Cranston would not have been at all pleased if he had scratched thelion.
To keep him quiet I began talking to him about my fancies. I made himlook close into the lions' faces--it was getting late in the afternoon,and we had noticed before we came in that the sun was setting stormily.A ray of bright orange-coloured light found its way in through one ofthe high-up windows which were at the back of the show-room, and fellright across the mane of one of the lions and almost into the eyes ofthe other. The effect on the dark, almost black, wood of which they weremade was very curious.
"Look, Haddie," I said suddenly, catching his arm, "doesn't it reallylook as if they were smiling at us--the one with the light on its faceespecially? I really do think there's something funny about them--Iwonder if they are enchanted."
Haddie did not laugh at me. I think in his heart he was fond of fanciestoo, though he might not have liked the boys at school to know it. Hesat staring at our queer friends nearly as earnestly as I did myself.And as the ray of light slowly faded, he turned to me.
"Yes," he said, "their faces do seem to change. But I think they alwayslook kind."
"They do to _us_," I said confidently, "but sometimes they are quitefierce. I don't think they looked at us the way they do now the firsttime they saw us. And one day one of the men in the shop shovedsomething against one of them and his face frowned--I'm sure it did."
"I wonder if he'd frown if I got up on his back," said Haddie.
"Oh, do leave off about climbing on their backs," I said. "It wouldn'tbe at all comfortable--they're so broad, you couldn't sit cross-legs,and they'd be as slippery as anything. It's much nicer to make upstories about them coming alive in the night, or turning into blackprinces and saying magic words to make the doors open like in theArabian Nights."
"Well, tell me stories of all they do then," said Haddiecondescendingly.
"I will if you'll let me think for a minute," I said. "I wish Aunty Ettawas here--she does know such lovely stories."
"I like yours quite as well," said Haddie encouragingly, "I don'tremember Aunty Etta's; it's such a long time since I saw her. You sawher last year, you know, but I didn't."
"She told me one about a china parrot, a most beautiful green and goldparrot, that was really a fairy," I said. "I think I could turn it intoa lion story, if I thought about it."
"No," said Haddie, "you can tell the parrot one another time. I'd ratherhear one of your own stories, new, about the lions. I know you've gotsome in your head. Begin, do--I'll help you if you can't get on."
But my story that afternoon was not to be heard. Just as I was beginningwith, "Well, then, there was once an old witch who lived in a verylonely hut in the middle of a great forest," there came voices behindus, and in another moment we heard mamma saying,
"Haddie, my boy, Geraldine, I am quite ready."
I was not very sorry. I liked to have more time to make up my stories,and Haddie sometimes hurried me so. It was Aunty Etta, I think, who hadfirst put it into my head to make them. She was _so_ clever about itherself, both in making stories and in remembering those she had read,and she _had_ read a lot. But she was away in India at the time I am nowwriting about; her going so far off was a great sorrow to mamma.
Haddie and I started up at once. We had to be very obedient, what fathercalled "quickly obedient," and though he was so kind he was very stricttoo.
"My children are great admirers of your lions, Mr. Cranston," mammasaid; and the old man smiled.
"They are not singular in their taste, madam," he said. "I own that I amvery proud of them myself, and when my poor daughter was a child therewas nothing pleased her so much as when her mother or I lifted her on toone of them, and made believe she was going a ride."
Haddie looked triumphant.
"There now you see, Sis," he whispered, nudging me.
But I did not answer him, for I was listening to what mamma was saying.
"Oh, by the bye, Mr. Cranston," she went on, "I was forgetting to askhow your little grandchild is. Have you seen her lately?"
Old Cranston's face brightened.
"She is very well, madam, I thank you," he replied. "And I am pleased tosay that she is coming to stay with us shortly. We hope to keep herthrough the winter. Her stepmother is very kind, but with littlechildren of her own, it is not always easy for her to give as muchattention as she would like to Myra, and she and Mr. Raby have respondedcordially to our invitation."
"I am very glad to hear it--very glad indeed," said mamma. "I know whata pleasure it will be to you and Mrs. Cranston. Let me see--how old isthe little girl now--seven, eight?"
"_Nine_, madam, getting on for ten indeed," said Mr. Cranston withpride.
"Dear me," said mamma, "how time passes! I remember seeing her when shewas a baby--before we came to live here, of course, once when I wasstaying at Fernley, just after----"
Mamma stopped and hesitated.
"Just after her poor mother died--yes, madam," said the old man quietly.
And then we left, Mr. Cranston respectfully holding the door open.
It was growing quite dark; the street-lamps were lighted and their gleamwas reflected on the pavement, for it had been raining and was stillquite wet underfoot. Mamma looked round her.
"You had better put on your mackintosh, Haddie," she said. "It may rainagain. No, Geraldine dear, there is no use opening your umbrella till itdoes rain."
My feelings were divided between pride in my umbrella and somereluctance to have it wet! I took hold of mamma's arm again, whileHaddie walked at her other side. It was not a very cheerful prospectbefore us--the gloomy dirty streets of Mexington were now muddy andsloppy as well--though on the whole I don't know but that they lookedrather more cheerful by gaslight than in the day. It was chilly too, forthe season was now very late autumn, if not winter. But little did wecare--I don't think there could have been found anywhere two happierchildren than my brother and I that dull rainy evening as we trottedalong beside our mother. There was the feeling of _her_ to take care ofus, of our cheerful home waiting for us, with a bright fire and thetea-table all spread. If I had not been a little tired--for we hadwalked a good way--in my heart I was just as ready to skip along on thetips of my toes as when we
first came out.
"We may stop at Miss Fryer's, mayn't we, mamma?" said Haddie.
"Well, yes, I suppose I promised you something for tea," mamma replied.
"How much may we spend?" he asked. "Sixpence--do say sixpence, and thenwe can get enough for you to have tea with us too."
"Haddie," I said reproachfully, "as if we wouldn't give mamma somethinghowever little we had!"
"We'd offer it her of course, but you know she wouldn't take it," hereplied. "So it's much better to have really enough for all."
His way of speaking made mamma laugh again.
"Then I suppose it must be sixpence," she said, "and here we are at MissFryer's. Shall we walk on, my little girl, I think you must be tired,and let Haddie invest in cakes and run after us?"
"Oh no, please mamma, dear," I said, "I like so to choose too."
Half the pleasure of the sixpence would have been gone if Haddie and Ihad not spent it together.
"Then I will go on," said mamma, "and you two can come after metogether."
She took out her purse and gave my brother the promised money, and thenwith a smile on her dear face--I can see her now as she stood in thelight of the street-lamp just at the old Quakeress's door--she nodded tous and turned to go.
I remember exactly what we bought, partly, perhaps, because it was ourusual choice. We used to think it over a good deal first and each wouldsuggest something different, but in the end we nearly always came backto the old plan for the outlay of our sixpence, namely, half-pennycrumpets for threepence--that meant _seven_, not six; it was thereceived custom to give seven for threepence--and half-penny Bath bunsfor the other threepence--seven of them too, of course. And _Bath_ buns,not plain ones. You cannot get these now--not at least in any placewhere I have lived of late years. And I am not sure but that even atMexington they were a _specialite_ of dear old Miss Fryer's. They wereso good; indeed, everything she sold was thoroughly good of its kind.She was so honest, using the best materials for all she made.
That evening she stood with her usual gentle gravity while we discussedwhat we should have, and when after discarding sponge-cakes andfinger-biscuits, which we had thought of "for a change," and partlybecause finger-biscuits weighed light and made a good show, we cameround at last to the seven crumpets and seven buns, she listened asseriously and put them up in their little paper bags with as muchinterest as though the ceremony had never been gone through before. Andthen just as we were turning to leave, she lifted up a glass shade anddrew out two cheese-cakes, which she proceeded to put into another paperbag.
Haddie and I looked at each other. This was a lovely present. What a teawe should have!
"I think thee will find these good," she said with a smile, "and I hopethy dear mother will not think them too rich for thee and thy brother."
She put them into my hand, and of course we thanked her heartily. I haveoften wondered why she never said, "thou wilt," but always "thee will,"for she was not an uneducated woman by any means.
Laden with our treasures Haddie and I hurried home. There was mammawatching for us with the door open. How sweet it was to have her alwaysto welcome us!
"Tea is quite ready, dears," she said. "Run upstairs quickly, Geraldine,and take off your things, they must be rather damp. I am going to havemy real tea with you, for I have just had a note from your father to sayhe won't be in till late and I am not to wait for him."
Mamma sighed a little as she spoke. I felt sorry for her disappointment,but, selfishly speaking, we sometimes rather enjoyed the evenings fatherwas late, for then mamma gave us her whole attention, as she was notable to do when he was at home. And though we were very fond of ourfather, we were--I especially, I think--much more afraid of him than ofour mother.
And that was such a happy evening! I have never forgotten it. Mamma wasso good and thoughtful for us, she did not let us find out in the leastthat she was feeling anxious on account of something father had said inhis note to her. She was just perfectly sweet.
We were very proud of our spoils from Miss Fryer's. We wanted mamma tohave one cheesecake and Haddie and I to divide the other between us. Butmamma would not agree to that. She would only take a half, so that wehad three-quarters each.
"Wasn't it kind of Miss Fryer, mamma?" I said.
"Very kind," said mamma. "I think she is really fond of children thoughshe is so grave. She has not forgotten what it was to be a childherself."
Somehow her words brought back to my mind what old Mr. Cranston had saidabout his little grand-daughter.
"I suppose children _are_ all rather like each other," I said. "Likeabout Haddie, and that little girl riding on the lions."
Haddie was not very pleased at my speaking of it; he was beginning to beafraid of seeming babyish.
"That was _quite_ different," he said. "She was a baby and had to beheld on. It was the fun of climbing up _I_ cared for."
"She wasn't a baby," I said. "She's nine years old, he said shewas--didn't he, mamma?"
"You are mixing two things together," said mamma. "Mr. Cranston wasspeaking first of his daughter long ago when she was a child, and thenhe was speaking of _her_ daughter, little Myra Raby, who is now nineyears old."
"Why did he say my 'poor' daughter?" I asked.
"Did you not hear the allusion to her death? Mrs. Raby died soon afterlittle Myra was born. Mr. Raby married again--he is a clergyman not veryfar from Fernley----"
"A clergyman," exclaimed Haddie. He was more worldly-wise than I, thanksto being at school. "A clergyman, and he married a shopkeeper'sdaughter."
"There are very different kinds of shopkeepers, Haddie," said mamma."Mr. Cranston is very rich, and his daughter was very well educated andvery nice. Still, no doubt Mr. Raby was in a higher position than she,and both Mr. Cranston and his wife are very right-minded people, andnever pretend to be more than they are. That is why I was so glad tohear that little Myra is coming to stay with them. I was afraid thesecond Mrs. Raby might have looked down upon them perhaps."
Haddie said no more about it. And though I listened to what mamma said,I don't think I quite took in the sense of it till a good whileafterwards. It has often been like that with me in life. I have acuriously "retentive" memory, as it is called. Words and speeches remainin my mind like unread letters, till some day, quite unexpectedly,something reminds me of them, and I take them out, as it were, and findwhat they really meant.
But just now my only interest in little Myra Raby's history was apresent one.
"Mamma," I said suddenly, "if she is a nice little girl like what hermamma was, mightn't I have her to come and see me and play with me? Ihave never had any little girl to play with, and it is so dullsometimes--the days that Haddie is late at school and when you are busy.Do say I may have her--I'm sure old Mr. Cranston would let her come, andthen I might go and play with her sometimes perhaps. Do you think shewill play among the furniture--where the lions are?"
Mamma shook her head.
"No, dear," she answered. "I am quite sure her grandmother would notlike that. For you see anybody might come into the shop or show-rooms,and it would not seem nice for a little girl to be playing there--notnice for a carefully brought-up little girl, I mean."
"Then I don't think I should care to go to her house," I said, "but Iwould like her to come here. Please let her, mamma dear."
But mamma only said,
"We shall see."
After tea she told us stories--some of them we had heard often before,but we never tired of hearing them again--about when she and Aunty Ettawere little girls. They were lovely stories--real ones of course. Mammawas not as clever as Aunty Etta about making up fairy ones.
We were quite sorry when it was time to go to bed.
After I had been asleep for a little that night I woke up again--I hadnot been very sound asleep. Just then I saw a light, and mamma came intothe room with a candle.
"I'm not asleep, dear mamma," I said. "Do kiss me again."
"That is what I have come for," she an
swered.
And she came up to the bedside and kissed me, oh so sweetly--more thanonce. She seemed as if she did not want to let go of me.
"Dear mamma," I whispered sleepily, "I _am_ so happy--I'm always happy,but to-night I feel so _extra_ happy, somehow."
"Darling," said mamma.
And she kissed me again.