The House That Grew

And behind me were our dear pine woods, and the feeling of the squirrels and the home birds all busy and happy in the coming of the spring, though any sounds from there were very vague and soft.

At first I did not know what it all reminded me of. Something out of my own experiences I knew, but I had to think for a minute or two before it came back to my mind. And then I remembered that it was a story in a French book that mamma had read to us, partly in French, which Geordie and I knew fairly well, and partly translating as she read. It was called Les Ailes de Courage, by some great French author, who wrote it, I think, for his or her grandchildren, and it is almost the most interesting and strangest story I ever heard – about a boy who lived quite, quite alone in a cave by the seashore, and got to know all the wild creatures and their habits in the most wonderful way, so that they came to trust him as if he was one of themselves. I cannot give any right idea of the story; I doubt if any one could, but I wish you – if 'you' ever come to exist – would all read it.

Just as I was standing there, pleased to have remembered the association in my mind, I felt a hand slipped gently round my neck. It was not one of Geordie's 'hugs,' and I looked up in surprise. It was mamma.

'How quietly you came,' I said; 'and oh, mamma, doesn't it remind you of Les Ailes de Courage?'

'Yes,' she replied, 'I know exactly what you mean.'

And then we stood perfectly still and silent for a moment or two, taking it all in, more and more, till a very tiny sigh from mamma reminded me of something else – that dear papa was on that same great sea that we were gazing at – perhaps standing on the deck of the steamer and thinking of us – but so far away already!

'It is chilly,' said mamma, 'and we must not begin our life here by catching cold. We had better go in, dear. I think it is going to be a lovely day, but in the meantime I hope Hoskins has given us a fire in the dining-room.'

Yes – a nice bright little fire was crackling away merrily, a handful or two of the children's cones on the top. And the room looked quite cosy and tidy, as Margery had finished dusting and so on, in here, and was now busy at the other side.

'I will go and see how Esmé is getting on,' said mamma. 'She had had her bath before I came out, but there may be difficulties with her hair. And you might hurry up the boys, Ida, for I have promised Hoskins to be very punctual, and breakfast will be ready by eight.'

It was a good thing I did go to hurry up the boys – they were both fast asleep! Geordie looked dreadfully ashamed when I at last managed to get him really awake, and Denzil almost began to cry. He had planned with Esmé, he said, to have a run down to the sands before breakfast, and Hoskins knew and had promised them a slice of bread and butter and a drink of milk.

'Did she not wake you then?' I asked. 'She woke Esmé at seven, but I was already up.'

Geordie could not remember if he had been awakened or not. Denzil thought Margery had come in and said something about 'seven o'clock,' but it was all mixed up with a wonderful dream that he wanted me to stay to listen to, about a balloon (he had heard us talking about Taisy's balloon) with long cords hanging from it, like those in the grandfather's clock in the hall 'at home,' for you to climb up and down by, as if they were rope-ladders.

'You must have gone to sleep again and dreamt it through the word "o'clock" getting into your brain,' I said, whereupon I felt as if I had got out of the frying-pan into the fire, for instead of telling the rest of his dream, Denzil now wanted to know exactly what I meant, and what his brain was 'like,' and how a word could get into it – was it a box in his head, and his ears the doors, etc., etc. – Denzil had a dreadfully 'inquiring mind,' in those days – till I really had to cut him short and fly.

'You will neither of you be ready for breakfast, as it is,' I said; 'and if you are not quick you will have none at all, or at least quite cold.'

I nearly ran against the coffee, which Hoskins was just carrying in, as I got to the dining-room door, which would not have been a happy beginning. But I pulled up just in time, and took in good part Hoskins's reminder that it wouldn't do to rush about as if we were in the wide passages at home. Then she went on to tell me what it all made her think of, she was so glad to have remembered.

'It is just like a ship, Miss Ida. I have never been at sea, but I spent a day or two once on board one of the big steamers at Southampton that a cousin of my mother's is stewardess of. Yes, it's that that's been running in my head.'

'It can't have been a very big one, then,' I said, rather pertly, I am afraid. But Hoskins did not see the joke.

'Oh, but it was, Miss Ida,' she went on, after she had placed the coffee-pot in safety. 'The big rooms, saloons, as they call them, were really beautiful, but the passages quite narrow, and the kitchens and pantries so small, you'd wonder they do do any washing-up in them, let alone cooking. Not an inch of space lost, you may say. And as to how they manage in rough weather when everything's atop of the other, it's just wonderful, not that I've any wish to see for myself; the sea's all very well to be beside of, but as for going on it,' and Hoskins shook her head, but said no more. For mamma just then came into the room, and the kind-hearted woman did not want to remind her who was on the sea at the present moment.

We three – mamma and Esmé and I – had made some way with our breakfast before the two lazy ones joined us, Geordie rather shy and ashamed; Denzil eager to explain the whole story of his dream, and to tease poor mamma about his brain and how it was made and what it was like, till I did wish I had not mentioned its existence to him.

I don't remember anything very particularly interesting in the course of the first few days at the Hut, or rather perhaps, everything was so interesting that no one thing stands out very much in my memory or in my diary. I kept a diary in those days, as I daresay you who read this have suspected, otherwise I could not have been so exact about details, though it needs no diary to remind myself of the feeling of it all, of the curious charm of the half gypsy life. Not that it really was nearly as 'gypsy' as we would have liked it to be, or as we thought we would have liked it to be! It was really so comfortable, and we were all so pleased with our own efforts to make it so, and their success, that by the end of a week or ten days we began to long for some adventures.

'A storm,' said Geordie one day, – 'a storm at sea. How would that do? Not a very bad one of course, and – '

'No,' I said decidedly, frowning at him to remind him about papa's being on the sea, – 'no, that wouldn't do at all. Besides, there never are storms at this time of year. It's past the bad time. No, something more like real gypsies camping near us, and coming to ask us to lend them things, and telling our fortunes.'

But at this idea mamma shook her head.

'No, thank you,' she said, though she smiled; 'I have no wish for any such neighbours. Besides, Ida, you forget that though we are living in a hut, we are still at home on our own ground, and certainly gypsies have never been allowed to camp inside the lodge gates.'

'They never come nearer than Kirke Common now,' said George. 'They have been frightened of Eastercove, Barnes says, ever since papa was made a magistrate.'

'I think we must be content if we want adventures,' said mamma, 'with reading some aloud. I have got one or two nice books that none of you know, and I think it would be a very good plan to read aloud in the evenings.'

We were not very eager about it. We liked very much to be read to, but we were not fond of being the readers, and though mamma read aloud beautifully, I knew it was not right to let it all fall upon her, as her voice was not very strong.

'It isn't as if Taisy were here, to take turns with you, mamma,' I said, 'as she always does.'

'After this week,' said mamma, 'you will not want any more excitement, for we must really arrange about your lessons, Ida – yours and the little ones. And Geordie, of course, will begin again regularly with Mr. Lloyd, now that we are settled.'

Our daily governess was given up. She was not now quite 'advanced' enough for me, and to have her for Denzil and Esmé alone was very expensive, so it had been fixed that I was to work with mamma; and, on the other hand, be myself teacher to the little ones for the time. Mamma had thought she would have so much less to do, with papa away, and no calls to pay, or going out to dinners and luncheons, all of which she had given up for the time. But it did not look very like it so far – I mean not very like her 'having more time' than at the big house, for there were always things turning up for her to do, and then she wrote enormously long letters to papa every week. And there were things about the place, the whole property, which she had to be consulted about now he was away.

And for my part I was not at all looking forward to my new post of governess!

'It is such a pity,' I thought, 'that we can't have Taisy. She wouldn't have minded teaching the children a bit, and she is so clever. Lots of my own lessons I could have done with her too. And I know the little ones won't obey me; Denzil would, but not Esmé, and she will set him off.'

I suppose my face was looking rather cloudy, for mamma went on again.

'I daresay we shall all feel a little depressed for a time, for we have had a good deal of really tiring work as well as excitement. And the worst of over-excitement, at least for young, strong people, is, that when it is over, everything seems flat, and we find ourselves wishing something else would happen.'

'Yes,' I said; 'that's just what I feel. You do understand so well, mamma.'

'I have a mild piece of excitement in store for you to-day or to-morrow,' mamma went on again. 'I think it is quite time that I called on our tenants. They must be fairly settled by now.'

'I don't see that there was any settling for them to do,' I said. 'You left everything so beautifully neat and nice.'

Somehow I felt a little cross at the poor things!

'They have to unpack what they brought with them,' said Geordie; 'and I'm sure – ' he stopped short.

I knew why he stopped. He thought that what he was going to say might vex me, for, as I think – or hope I have owned – I have a quick temper. But Dods was not famous for 'tact'; that habit of his of stopping short all of a sudden often made me crosser than almost anything he could say.

'It's very rude not to finish your sentence,' I said sharply. 'What are you so sure about?'

'Only that you made fuss enough about our own unpacking,' he replied, 'quite extra from the getting the Hut in order and all that.'

'You are very unfair, and unkind,' I said, feeling as if I should like to cry, for I thought I had been very patient and good-tempered. 'Mamma, don't you think he needn't have said that?'

'He did not want to say it, to give him his due,' said mamma, smiling a little; 'and to give Ida her due,' she went on, turning to Geordie, 'I don't see, my boy, that you needed to think it.'

'Well,' said Dods, and I felt my vexedness begin to go away, 'after all, I don't know that I did. I suppose we've all been rather fussy, though it wasn't in a bad sort of way.'

'No, indeed,' said mamma; 'it was in a very good sort of way. You have all been most helpful; I wish you could have seen my last letter to papa about you.'

After that it would have been impossible to go on being vexed with any one, wouldn't it? I never knew any one like mamma for making horrid feelings go and nice ones come, and yet she is always quite true.

'Then, do you mean that you want me to go with you when you call on the Trevors, mamma?' I asked.

'Yes, I do, rather particularly,' she replied, so of course I said I would be ready whatever time she fixed, though I didn't very much want to go. I was just at the age – I don't think I have quite grown past it even now – when girls hate paying calls, and I could not bear the idea of being received as visitors in our very own house. This was extremely silly of course, as it was such a lucky thing for us to have let it to good, careful people like the Trevors, but I don't think it was an unnatural feeling. And afterwards, poor mamma owned to me that it was something of the same kind that had made her wish to take me with her. It would make her feel less 'lonely,' she thought. Wasn't it sweet of her to think that?

So that afternoon, or the next, I forget which, we found ourselves walking slowly up through the woods to the big house. I felt rather as if it must be Sunday, for it was not often, except on Sundays, that I was in the woods in very neat 'get up,' – proper gloves instead of rough garden ones, and best boots, and hat, and everything like for going to church, or for going a drive with mamma in the victoria.

We did not expect – at least I did not – to find our new acquaintances very interesting. There was nobody young among them, and hearing that they had come to Eastercove principally for health's sake did not sound very lively.

But, after all, something interesting did come of the visit, as I will tell you.

We were ushered into the drawing-room – 'the ladies were at home,' he said – by an oldish man-servant, with a nice face.

Into our own drawing-room – how funny it seemed! And already it did not seem quite our own, not the same. There were little changes in the places of the furniture, and there were unfamiliar odds and ends about, which made it feel strange. I was rather glad that there was no one in the room to receive us, and I squeezed mamma's hand tight, and I am sure she understood, and we both had time to get our breath, as it were, before any one appeared.

When some one did come, nevertheless, we were taken a little by surprise, for she – it was Miss Trevor – entered by the window, and I had been looking towards the door. There are long, low-down windows in the drawing-room, and at one side a terracey sort of walk, which is very pleasant for sitting out on, in summer especially, as it is well shaded.

Immediately I saw her I felt she was nice. She seemed older than mamma, though perhaps she was not so really. Her face was very quiet – that is the best word for it, and though I was so young then and knew so little of life, I felt that it was a face that had grown quiet through goodness. Even now I do not know much of Miss Trevor's history, but mamma has been told enough of it to make her think very highly of her.

There was not the least bit of hardness, scarcely even of sadness in her expression, but just a look – a look that made one feel that she had come through sorrow, and could never care very much about anything for herself again – anything here, I mean.

'I am so sorry,' she said at once, in a nice, hearty way, 'to have kept you waiting. It is such a lovely afternoon that mother and I have settled ourselves outside!'

'Then please don't unsettle yourselves,' said mamma, and I saw a gleam of pleasure creep into Miss Trevor's gray eyes at mamma's pretty voice and manner. 'May we not join Mrs. Trevor on the terrace, for I suppose it is there you are sitting?'

'Yes,' was the reply. 'It is so sheltered, and of course it is still early days for venturing anything of the kind. But mother is quite strong except for rheumatism, and really who could have rheumatism in this dry, fragrant air? We are so delighted with everything about your beautiful home, Mrs. Lanark,' she went on. (It has just struck me that till now I have never said that 'Lanark' is our family name! Really, I am not fit to try to write a story.) 'And you have done so much to make it perfect for us.'

Mamma and I felt repaid for our trouble by this, but before there was time to reply, we were out on the terrace, and Mrs. Trevor coming to meet us. It was not such an easy business for her to do so, as you might think. She had three dogs – darlings, I must own, and not barking, snapping darlings – dancing round her, and she was all twisted about with wool, red and green and white and all colours, unwound from the balls from her knitting. You never saw anything so funny, especially as the doggies, though very good-natured, were very lively

and affectionate, and very spoilt, evidently accustomed to think the wools and the knitting and every bit of dear Mrs. Trevor herself only existed for their benefit. How she managed to keep the wool clean, and to knit the pretty fluffy things she did, I never found out. I really think there was some magic about it, for I never saw her without the strands of it flying loose, and the dogs dancing up and down to catch it!

She was laughing – such a nice laugh.

'Really,' she said, 'you will think me a slave to my pugs, Mrs. Lanark, and I am afraid it is true. Zenia, dear, please untwist me.'

Miss Trevor was evidently pretty well used to doing so, but she laughed too; and mamma and I started forward to help, so between us we managed to get the wool wound up pretty quickly, the doggies standing by more quietly than usual. They were more in awe of Miss Trevor, it was plain to see, than of their actual mistress.

CHAPTER VII

'NO,' SAID MAMMA, 'THAT ISN'T ALL'

Then we all sat down at the end of the terrace; Mrs. and Miss Trevor had already found out exactly the nicest place, one of our own favourite places, sheltered but not too shut in, with a view of the pine woods close by, at one side, and a peep of the farther off sea, through an opening that had been made on purpose, at the other.

'I love that glimpse of the sea,' said Miss Trevor, who naturally began to talk to me, as her mother and mamma were entertaining each other.

'Yes,' I said, 'this corner is a very nice one. But you should see the view from where we are now – down at the Hut, I mean.'

'It must be charming,' she replied, 'so open and wide. I am very anxious, indeed,' she went on smiling, 'to see the Hut. It must be so – picturesque.'

'No, it isn't exactly that,' I said. 'It's queer, and out-of-the-common, of course, but the charm of the place is the place,' and I laughed at my own way of expressing myself. 'It seems so entirely away from everything, except the sea and the trees and the wild creatures, though it isn't really lonely.'

Then mamma turned to Miss Trevor with some little explanation about something or other in the house which Mrs. Trevor said her daughter took charge of, and the old lady – I hope it isn't rude to call her that? she did seem old to me – began talking to me. I liked her very much. She was so fond of her three doggies, and she was so sympathising about one of ours that had died a few months before, and whom we had loved so dearly, that it was not till a good while afterwards that we could bear to have another.

The one we did have in the end was a present from Mrs. Trevor, a pug puppy, and we have him still, and I named him 'Woolly,' which everybody thinks a most unsuitable name for a pug, as they do not understand the reason for it. I daresay you will guess that it was because the sight of a pug always reminds me of Mrs. Trevor's unwound balls, and the wool all twined round her.

Soon after, mamma said we must be going, and we bade Mrs. Trevor good-bye, but Miss Trevor said she would go a little bit of the way with us.

She seemed to have something she wanted to say, and as if she did not quite know how to begin, till at last, just as we were close to the turn in the drive that led to the stables and coach-houses, she stood still for a moment. From where we were there was again a peep of the sea, all glistening and sparkling, though calm.

'This is another pretty peep,' said mamma.

'Yes,' Miss Trevor agreed, 'and the advantage up here is that we can have these open views and yet be in shade. As the season gets on, I am afraid you will find it rather too unsheltered from the sun to sit out on the sea-side of the Hut.'

'We shall have to rig up shady arrangements,' said mamma laughingly.

'That reminds me,' said Miss Trevor, which was not quite true, as she had been thinking of it all this time, I am sure, and wondering how she was to offer it without seeming officious, or anything of that sort, – 'that reminds me' – then she broke off – 'would you mind just looking in here a moment?'

'In here' was one of the coach-houses. Miss Trevor led the way towards it, and pushed open the door. Inside stood a sort of Bath-chair, of lighter build, even though larger, than such things generally are. It was of wickerwork, covered with pretty stuff like what tents and awnings are made of – as we saw when she threw off the sheet that was over it.

'We call this my brother's boudoir,' she said. 'It is quite a curiosity,' and she began drawing out and showing us all manner of contrivances – a table which hooked on to one side, another which fastened itself to the front, a large basket for the other side, a stool, quite strong enough for a second person to sit on comfortably to talk or read to whomever was in the chair; and besides all these, wonderful awnings that pulled out and could be turned and twisted like big umbrellas, and stretches of wickerwork to make the chair into a couch – and all this on wheels!

'It is not meant to be used as a Bath-chair,' went on Miss Trevor; 'the wheels are just to move it easily for short distances. It is really a stationary affair. My brother invented a good deal of it himself two or three years ago when he was very ill – much more of an invalid than now, I mean.'

'It is a beautiful thing,' said mamma, in which I quite agreed with her, though we both wondered a little why she was exhibiting it at all to us so minutely.

'But Will isn't at all pleased with us for bringing it here,' Miss Trevor continued. 'He says he never wants to see it again; it reminds him of his worst time, and he says I must get rid of it. He prefers sitting out among the pines in a quite well sort of way. So – it just struck mother and me, that perhaps it might be some little use to you, down so near the sea where there is no shade,' and she glanced at us half timidly.

'Oh!' I exclaimed, before mamma had time to speak, 'it would be splendid – just in front of the little porch. We could really make a sort of tiny room with it, and you could be so comfortable, mamma, on sunny days. Oh, do say we may have it!'

Miss Trevor seemed delighted, and mamma smiled at my enthusiasm.

'It is a charming chair,' she said, 'far more than a chair indeed – I scarcely know what to call it. It is most kind of you to have thought of it for us, Miss Trevor, and if you are so good as to lend it to us, you may be sure we shall take the greatest care of it. And, of course, if Mr. William Trevor ever wants to have it while you are here, you must not for an instant hesitate to tell us and we should send it back at once.'

Miss Trevor got rather red.

'Oh, but,' she said, 'you don't quite understand, Mrs. Lanark. We want you to have it for good – to keep, I mean, if you care for it. I am perfectly certain that Will won't want it. In fact, he says he hates the sight of it. And down at the Hut, it might be of use, even after you have moved up here again. I will have it wheeled down to you to-morrow morning; it may need a little cleaning up first. The wheels are quite strong enough for a short journey, especially with no one inside. I only meant that it is not built in the peculiarly strong way a regular Bath-chair needs to be.'

I did feel so pleased to know it was to be our very own, and so, I think, did mamma. For when things are lent, there is always a rather fidgety feeling, for fear they should get spoilt in any way. And Miss Trevor had said it so nicely – as if our taking it would really be doing them a favour. For, of course, from almost complete strangers it is a little difficult to accept presents, though mamma has often told us that to receive a kindness graciously is quite as much a duty as to offer one.

And then too she had spoken as if our return to our proper home was quite a certainty, and our absence from it only a question of a little time, though afterwards we heard that there had been a good deal of gossip in the neighbourhood about our being completely 'ruined,' and that Eastercove was sure to have to be sold. I suppose a great deal of gossip is not meant to be unkind, but still it does seem sometimes as if people were more ready to exaggerate and talk about other people's troubles than about their good fortune.