Carrots: Just a Little Boy

But Floss saw that she was trying; she did not persist, however, but took Carrots by the hand, and went off obediently without speaking, only giving auntie one wistful look as she turned away.

"What's wrong, Florence?" said Sybil's father, as the door closed after the children.

"It is about Lucy," said auntie; "she is much worse; very ill indeed. She has caught cold somehow, and Frank seems almost to have lost hope already."

Two or three tears rolled down auntie's face as she spoke. For a minute or two Sybil's father said nothing.

"How about telling the children?" he asked at last.

"That's just it," replied auntie. "Frank leaves it to me to tell them or not, as I think best. He would not let Cecil or Louise write, as he thought if it had to be told I had better do so as gently as I could, by word of mouth. But they must be told – they are such quick children, I believe Floss suspects it already. And if – and if the next news should be worse," continued auntie with a little sob, "I would never forgive myself for not having prepared them, and they would be full of self-reproach for having been happy and merry as usual. Floss would say she should have known it by instinct."

"Would they feel it so much? – could they realise it? They are so young," said Sybil's father.

Auntie shook her head. "Not too young to feel it terribly," she said. "It is much better to tell them. I could not hide the sorrow in my face from those two honest pairs of eyes, for one thing."

"Well, you know best," said her husband.

A sad telling it was, and the way in which the children took it touched auntie's loving heart to the quick. They were so quiet and "pitiful," as little Sybil said. Floss's face grew white, for, with a child's hasty rush at conclusions, she fancied at first that auntie was paving the way for the worst news of all.

"Is mamma dead?" she whispered, and auntie's "Oh no, no, darling. Not so bad as that," seemed to give her a sort of crumb of hope, even before she had heard all.

And Carrots stood beside auntie's knee, clasping his little mother Floss's hand tight, and looking up in auntie's face with those wonderful eyes of his, which auntie had said truly one could not deceive; and when he had been told all there was to tell, he just said softly, "Oh poor mamma! Auntie, she kissened us so many times!"

And then, which auntie was on the whole glad of, the three children sat down on the rug together and cried; Sybil, in her sympathy, as heartily as the others, while she kept kissing and petting them, and calling them by every endearing name she could think of.

"When will there be another letter, auntie?" said Floss.

"The day after to-morrow," said auntie. "Your father will write by every mail."

In her own heart auntie had not much hope. From what Captain Desart said, the anxiety was not likely to last long. The illness had taken a different form from Mrs. Desart's other attacks. "She must be better or worse in a day or two," he wrote, and auntie's heart sorely misgave her as to which it would be.

The sorrowful day seemed very long to the children. They did their lessons as usual, for auntie told them it would be much better to do so.

"Would it please mamma?" said Carrots; and when auntie said "Yes, she was quite sure it would," he got his books at once, and "tried" even harder than usual.

But after lessons they had no heart to play, and there was no "must" about that. By bed-time they all looked worn out with crying and the sort of strange excitement there is about great sorrows – above all to children – which is more exhausting than almost anything.

"This will never do," thought auntie. "Hugh" (that was the name of Sybil's father) "will have reason to think I should have taken his advice, and not told them, if they go on like this."

"Sybil," she said, "Floss and Carrots will make themselves ill before the next letter comes. What can we do for them?"

Sybil shook her head despondently.

"I don't know, mother dear," she said; "I've got out all my best things to please them, but it's no good." She stood still for a minute, then her face lightened up. "Mother," she said, "'aposing you were to read aloud some of those stories you're going to get bounded up into a book some day? They would like that."

Floss hardly felt as if she could care to hear any stories, however pretty. But she did not like to disappoint kind auntie by saying so, especially when auntie told her she really wanted to know if she and Carrots liked her stories, as it would help her to judge if other children would care for them when they were "bounded up into a book."

So the next day auntie read them some, and they talked them over and got quite interested in them. Fortunately, she did not read them all that day, for the next day there was still more need of something to distract the children's sorrowful thoughts, as the looked-for letter did not come. Auntie would have liked to cheer the children by reminding them of the old sayings that "No news is good news," and "It is ill news which flies fast," but she dared not, for her own heart was very heavy with anxiety. And she was very glad to see them interested in the rest of the stories for the time.

I cannot tell you these stories, but some day perhaps you may come across the little book which they were made into. But there is one of them which I should like to tell you, as it is not very long, and in the children's mind it was always associated with something that happened just as auntie had finished reading it. For it was the last of her little stories, and it was called —

CHAPTER XII.

"THE TWO FUNNY LITTLE TROTS."

"Like to a double cherry."Midsummer-Night's Dream.

'"Oh mamma," cried I, from the window by which I was standing, to my mother who was working by the fire, "do come here and look at these two funny little trots."'

[Auntie had only read this first sentence of her story when Sybil interrupted her.

"Mother dear," she said, in her prim little way, "before you begin, do tell us one thing. Does the story end sadly?"

Auntie smiled. "You should have asked me before I had begun, Sybil," she said. "But never mind now. I don't really think I can tell you if it ends sadly or not. It would be like telling you the end at the beginning, and it would spoil the interest, if you understand what that means."

"Very well," said Sybil, resignedly, "then I suppose I must wait. But I won't like it if it ends badly, mother, and Floss won't, and Carrots won't. Will you, Floss and Carrots?"

"I don't think Floss and Carrots can say, till they've heard it," said auntie. "Now, Sybil, you mustn't interrupt any more. Where was I? Oh yes"] – '"do come and look at these two funny little trots."

'My mother got up from her seat and came to the window. She could not help smiling when she saw the little couple I pointed out to her.

'"Aren't they a pair of fat darlings?" I said. "I wonder if they live in our terrace?"

'We knew very little of our neighbours, though we were not living in London, for we had only just come to St. Austin's. We had come there to spend the winter, as it was a mild and sheltered place, for I, then a girl of sixteen, had been in delicate health for some time.' ["You wouldn't believe it to see me now, would you?" said auntie, looking up at the children with a smile on her pretty young-looking face, but it was quite true, all the same.] 'I was my mother's only girl,' she went on, turning to her manuscript again, 'and she was a widow, so you can fancy what a pet I was. My big brothers were already all out in the world, in the navy, or the army, or at college, and my mother and I generally lived by ourselves in a country village much farther north than St. Austin's, and it was quite an event to us to leave our own home for several months and settle ourselves down in lodgings in a strange place.

'It seemed a very strange place to us, for we had not a single friend or acquaintance in it, and at home in our village we knew everybody, and everybody knew us, from the clergyman down to farmer Grinthwait's sheep-dog, and nothing happened without our knowing it. I suppose I was naturally of rather a sociable turn. I knew my mother used sometimes in fun to call me "a little gossip," and I really very much missed the sight of the accustomed friendly faces. We had been two days at St. Austin's, and I had spent most of those two days at the window, declaring to my mother that I should not feel so "strange" if I got to know some of our neighbours by sight, if nothing more.

'But hitherto I had hardly succeeded even in this. There did not seem to be any "neighbours" in the passers-by; they were just passers by who never seemed to pass by again, and without anything particular to distinguish them if they did. For St. Austin's was a busy little place, and our house was on the South Esplanade, the favourite "promenade" for the visitors, none of whom, gentlemen, ladies, or children had particularly attracted me till the morning I first caught sight of my funny little trots.

'I do think they would have attracted any one – any one certainly that loved children. I fancy I see them now, the two dears, coming slowly and solemnly along, each with a hand of their nurse, pulling well back from her, as if the effort to keep up, even with her deliberate rate of walking, was almost too much for their fat little legs. They looked exactly the same size, and were alike in everything, from their dresses – which this first day were brown holland, very easy about the bodies, very short and bunchy about the skirts – to the two white woolly lambs, clasped manfully by each in his or her disengaged hand. Whether they were boys or girls I could not tell in the least, and to this day I do not know.

'"Aren't they darlings, mamma?" I said.

'"They certainly are two funny little trots," she replied with a smile, using my own expression.

'Mamma went back to her knitting, but I stayed by the window, watching my new friends. They passed slowly up the Esplanade, my eyes following them till they were out of sight, and then I turned away regretfully.

'"They are sure not to pass again," I said, "and they are so nice."

'"If they live near here, very likely the Esplanade is their daily walk, and they will be passing back again in a few minutes," said my mother, entering into my fancy.

'I took up her suggestion eagerly. She was right: in about a quarter of an hour my trots appeared again, this time from the other direction, and, as good luck would have it, just opposite our window, their nurse happening to meet an acquaintance, they came to a halt!

'"Mamma, mamma," I exclaimed, "here they are again!"

'Mamma nodded her head and smiled without looking up. She was just then counting the rows of her knitting, and was afraid of losing the number. I pressed my face close to the window – if only the trots would look my way! – I could hardly resist tapping on the pane.

'Suddenly a bright thought struck me. I seized Gip, my little dog, who was asleep on the hearth-rug and held him up to the window.

'"T'ss, Gip; T'ss, cat. At her; at her," I exclaimed.

'Poor Gip had doubtless been having delightful dreams – it was very hard on him to be wakened up so startlingly. He blinked his eyes and tried to see the imaginary cat – no doubt he thought it was his own fault he did not succeed, for he was the most humble-minded and unpresuming of little dogs, and his faith in me was unbounded. He could not see a cat, but he took it for granted that I did; so he set to work barking vigorously. That was just what I wanted. The trots heard the noise and both turned round; then they let go their nurse's hands and made a little journey round her skirts till they met.

'"Dot," said one, "pretty doggie."

'"Doll," said the other, both speaking at once, you understand, "pretty doggie."

'I don't mean to say that I heard what they said, I only saw it. But afterwards, when I had heard their voices, I felt sure that was what they had said, for they almost always spoke together.

'Then they joined their disengaged hands (the outside hand of each still clasping its woolly lamb), and there they stood, legs well apart, little mouths and eyes wide open, staring with the greatest interest and solemnity at Gip and me. At Gip, of course, far more than at me. Gip was a dog, I, was only a girl! – quite a middle-aged person, no doubt, the trots thought me, if they thought about me at all; perhaps they did a little, as I was Gip's owner; for I was sixteen, and they could not have been much more than three.

'But all this time they were so solemn. I wanted to make them laugh. There was a little table in the window – a bow window, of course, as it was at the sea-side, and certain to catch winds from every quarter of the heavens – upon which I mounted Gip, and set to work putting him through his tricks. I made him perform "ready, present, fire," with a leap to catch the bit of biscuit off his nose. I made him "beg," "lie dead," like Mother Hubbard's immortal pet, and do everything a well-educated dog could be expected to do. And, oh, how funny it was to watch the trots! Evidently they had never seen anything of the kind before; they stared at first as if they could hardly believe their eyes, and then they smiled, and, at last, they laughed. How prettily they laughed – they looked more like two fat cherubs than ever.

'But their laughing attracted their maid's attention. She too turned round, and I was pleased to see that she had a pleasant pretty young face. "I shouldn't have liked those dear trots to have a cross old nurse," I said to myself, and the maid still further raised herself in my good opinion by laughing and smiling too. In a minute or two when she thought "that was enough for to-day," she stooped and whispered to the trots. They immediately lifted their little hands, the right of one, the left of the other – for nothing, you see, could have persuaded them to let go of their precious lambs – to their rosy mouths and blew a kiss to me, and I could see them say, "Zank zou, lady; zank zou, doggie."

'You may be sure I kissed my hand to them in return, and off they toddled, each with a hand of "Bessie," as I afterwards heard them call their maid, and hauling back manfully as before, which gave Bessie the look of a very large steam-tug convoying two very little vessels.

'I watched them till they were quite out of sight. Then I turned to my mother.

'"I have made two friends here any way, mamma," I said. "The trots are sure to stop every time they pass. It will be something to watch for."

'Mamma smiled. She was pleased to see me pleased and interested, for she had been beginning to fear that the dulness and strangeness of our new life would prevent St. Austin's doing me as much good as she had hoped.

'"To-morrow, dear," she said, "if it is fine, I hope you will be able to go a little walk, and we'll look out for your little friends."

'It was fine the next day, and we did go out, and we did meet the trots!

'They caught sight of me (of Gip, rather, I should perhaps say) and I of them, just about the same moment. I saw them tug their nurse, and when they got close up to me they stopped short. It was no use Bessie's trying to get them on; there they stood resolutely, till the poor girl's face grew red, and she looked quite ashamed. Gip, who I must say, had a wonderful amount of tact, ran up to them with a friendly little bark. Bessie let go the trots' hands and stooped to stroke him.

'"He won't bite, miss, will he?" she said gently, looking up at me.

'"Oh, dear, no," I said, and the trots, smiling with delight, stooped – not that they had so very far to stoop – to stroke him too.

'"Pretty doggie," said Doll.

'"Pretty doggie," said Dot.

'Then they held up their dear little mouths to kiss me. "Zank zou, lady," they said, and each taking a hand of Bessie again, they proceeded on their way.

'After that day, not many passed without my seeing them, and talking to them, and making Gip show off his tricks. Sometimes our meetings were at the window, sometimes on the road; once or twice, when there came some unusually fine mild days, mamma let me sit out on the shore, and I taught the trots to dig a hole for Gip and bury him in the sand, all but his bright eyes and funny black nose – that was a beautiful game! I never found out exactly where my friends lived; it was in one of the side streets leading on to the Esplanade, that was all I knew. I never knew, as I said, if they were boys or girls, or perhaps one of each. Mamma wanted one day to ask Bessie, but I wouldn't let her. They were just my two little trots, that was all I wanted to know.

'"It would spoil them to fancy them growing up into great boys or girls," I said. "I want them to be always trots – nothing else."

'And as Bessie called them simply Doll and Dot, without any "master" or "miss," I was able to keep my fancy.

'When the weather grew colder, the trots came out in a new costume – sealskin coats, sealskin caps, and sealskin gloves – they were just little balls of sealskin, and looked "trottier" than ever. About this time they left off carrying their woolly lambs. I suspect the real reason was that their extreme affection for the lambs had resulted in these favoured animals growing more black than white, and that Bessie judged them unfit for appearing in public, but if this was the case, evidently Bessie had been obliged to resort to artifice to obtain their owners' consent to the lambs being left at home. For, when I asked the trots where the precious creatures were, they looked melancholy and distressed and shook their heads.

'"Too told!" said Doll, and Dot repeated, like a mournful echo, "too told!"

'"Of course," said I, "how stupid of me not to think of it! of course it's far too cold for such very little lambs to be out."

'Bessie looked gratefully at me. "We're going to buy some cakes for tea," she said, with a smile, and sure enough in about half-an-hour the trio reappeared again, and came to a standstill as usual, opposite our window. And, instead of a lamb, each trot hugged a little parcel, neatly done up in white paper. I opened the window to hear what they were saying, they looked so excited.

'"Takes for tea," they both called out at once, "takes for tea. Lady have one. Dip have one."

'And poor Bessie was obliged to open the parcels, and extract one "take" from each and hand them up to me, before my little dears would be satisfied.

'Can you fancy that I really got to love the trots? I did not want to know who they were, or what sort of a father and mother they had – they were well taken care of, that was evident, for somehow, knowing anything more about them would have spoilt them for being my funny little trots.

'But, for several weeks of the three months we spent at St. Austin's, the sight of these happy little creatures was one of my greatest pleasures, and a day without a glimpse of them would have seemed blank and dull.

'There came a time, however, when for many days I did not see my little friends. The weather was bad just then, and mamma said she was sure they had got colds, that would be all that was wrong with them, but somehow I felt uneasy. I asked our doctor, when he called, if there was much illness about, and he, fancying I was nervous on my own account, replied, "Oh no, with the exception of two or three cases of croup, he had no serious ailments among his patients: it was a very healthy season."

'I got frightened at the idea of croup, and cross-questioned him to discover if my trots were among the sufferers, but he shook his head. All his little patients were mere infants; he did not even know the trots by sight.

'Then mamma suggested another very reasonable explanation of their disappearance.

'"They have probably left St. Austin's," she said. "Many people come here for only the very worst of the winter, and that is about over now."

'But even this did not satisfy me. I was certain something was wrong with Doll and Dot, and I wasted, I should be ashamed to say how many hours gazing out of the window in hopes of catching sight of the familiar little figures.

'At last, one day, when I had almost left off hoping ever to see them again, suddenly, two figures appeared on the Esplanade, a stone's throw from our window.

'Who were they? Could it be – yes, it must be one of the trots, led by, not Bessie, no, this maid was a stranger. Where could Bessie be? And oh, where was my other little trot? For, even at some yards' distance, I saw something sadly different in the appearance of the one little figure, slowly coming along in our direction. It was dressed – hat, coat, gloves, socks and all – it was dressed in deep mourning.

'I seized my hat and rushed out to meet them. Mamma thought I was going out of my mind I believe. When I found myself in the open air, I tried to control myself and look like the rest of the people walking quietly along, though my heart was beating violently, and I felt as if I could not speak without crying. But when I got up to the one little trot and its attendant, the sight of her strange face composed me. She was so different from Bessie – old and stiff and prim looking. I stooped to kiss the child, Dot or Doll, I knew not which. "How are you, darling?" I said. "And where is – " I stopped short.

'The trot looked up in my face.

'"Oh lady," it said, "Dot is all alone. Doll is 'done to 'Ebben," and the great tears gathered in Dot's mournful eyes and rolled down Dot's rosy cheeks.

'"Hush, hush, my dear. You mustn't cry. You'll make yourself ill if you cry any more," said the hard looking nurse.

'A moment before, I had intended turning to her and asking for some particulars of the baby's sad words, but now I felt I could not. She was so stiff and unsympathising. I could not bear her to see me, a stranger, crying about what I had heard. Besides, what good would it do? Why should I hear any more? I shrank from doing so. The bare fact was enough. I just bent down and kissed the solitary darling.

'"Good-bye, my trot," I said. I could not say another word.

'"Dood bye, don't ky," said Dot, stroking my cheek. "Doll won't turn back, but Dot will do to 'Ebben too some day."

'That was quite too much for me. I turned away and hurried back home as fast as I could.

'"Mamma," I exclaimed, rushing into our sitting-room, and throwing myself down on the sofa, "It's just what I thought. I wish you would come away from St. Austin's at once. I shall never, never like it again."

'"What is the matter, Florence?" said poor mamma, quite startled.

'"It's about the trots," I said, now fairly sobbing, "I have just seen one – in deep mourning, mamma, – and – and – the other one is dead."

'"Poor little angel!" said mamma. And the tears came into her eyes too.

'I did not see Dot again after that day. I fancy that was its last walk before leaving St. Austin's for its regular home, wherever that was. And a very short time after we ourselves left too.

'I never forgot the trots. Of course the pleasure of going back to our own dear home again, and seeing all our old friends, raised my spirits, and softened the real grief I had felt. But whenever we spoke of St. Austin's, or people asked me about it, and mentioned the esplanade or the shore, or any of the places where I had seen the trots, the tears would come into my eyes, as again I seemed to see before me the two dear funny little figures. And whenever our plans for the following winter were alluded to, I always said one thing: "Wherever you go, mamma, don't go to St. Austin's."

'My mother gave in to me. When did she not? How patient she was with me, how sympathising, even in my fancies! And how unselfish – it was not till long after we had left St. Austin's, that she told me what anxiety she had gone through on hearing of my having kissed little Dot. For how sadly probable it seemed that Doll had died of some infectious illness, such as scarlet-fever, for instance, which I had never had!

'"But Dot couldn't have been ill, mamma," I said. "Dot looked perfectly well."