Chapter Nine.
Prayer-Books, Lost and Found.
And so they did! Aunt Margaret would not have raised Jasper’s hopes without good reason, and she knew that there are ways and means of hurrying up hampers and cases even by goods trains, when there is cause for doing so. Morris, the Fareham gardener, had seen to it all, and the well-chosen plants and flowers arrived in good order, looking none the worse for their journey.
They gave all the children a busy and—for that very reason perhaps—a happy afternoon, Jasper especially, as his mother chose out half-a-dozen pots “for his very own” to keep on a tiny table in front of his window, and the others were arranged in groups on flower-stands in the three rooms downstairs, as neither Leila nor Chrissie cared to have any in their own quarters.
“I’d only forget to water them,” said Chrissie coolly, “and so would Lell, I’m sure, and then there’d be fusses,” and though Leila half thought of firing up at this, her usual dislike to trouble gained the day, and she said nothing.
“The drawing-room looks quite a different place with flowers and greenery about,” said Mrs Fortescue, “and Aunt Margaret’s pretty work-baskets and silver scissors and knick-knacks.”
“And books,” added Chrissie. “Aren’t they lovely—the bindings, I mean?” and she fondled the prayer-book which had so caught her fancy.
“I am afraid the prayer-book is more ornamental than useful to me now,” said Miss Fortescue. “The print is too small for my old eyes. So I have to use a much larger one. Yes—my corner looks quite homelike, thanks to your table and that most comfortable arm-chair, Edith.”
“I think we may sit in here this evening,” said Mrs Fortescue, eyeing the still darkened carpet. “We will leave the window open and keep up a big fire till dark. But we had better not stay any longer just now. I do hope to-morrow will be a brighter day.”
“But it is not raining, though it is dull,” said her aunt, “and the children have not been out. I think we might have a little walk before tea. I should like to know something of the neighbourhood.”
“I can show you the post-office—it’s nearer than the pillar-box,” said Jasper. “Mumsey lets me go to buy stamps—and the omlibus startin’-place, and the church, and—”
“Don’t be silly, Jasper,” said Leila, who was feeling cross at having to go out. “That’s not what Aunt Margaret wants to see—not that there’s anything at all to see,” she added gloomily. “It’s perfectly hideous, it’s not like London at all.”
“I thought you were within a mile of Kensington Gardens,” said Miss Fortescue quietly. “I have very pleasant associations with Kensington Gardens and the old Palace.”
“We’ve never been there since we came,” said Leila. “Mother’s been too busy to take us, and besides—they’re always stuffed with nursery-maids and perambulators.”
“Well—let us explore a little by degrees; as the spring comes on we must find some pleasant walks. But we must be quick just now, or it will be getting too late for even a short one.”
And for a wonder the two sisters did manage to be ready when their aunt came downstairs, followed by Jasper, who insisted on carrying her “numbrella.” Leila was feeling a little ashamed of her peevishness, and Chrissie was still under the good impression of the morning. So both were, for the time being, at their best, and the walk passed off pleasantly.
But Aunt Margaret was very observant, and even now, in these first few day’s, when the novelty of her presence and the influence of her never-failing cheerful kindliness did much to smooth things, her heart was sometimes sad and anxious.
“They have been terribly spoilt,” she said to herself, “and while life was made so very easy for them, this did not show as it does now. Poor dears—I hope we may be able to check this selfishness and want of consideration for others—it may be more owing to want of thought than to any deeper cause.”
As time went on, however, her anxiety and disappointment increased. Leila fell back into her indolent habits, and Christabel grew more openly defiant and self-willed. And at last their mother felt that she could no longer go on trying to make the best of things in hopes of sparing her aunt distress, and herself perhaps, unselfish as she was, some sharp mortification.
“I don’t know what to do with either of the little girls,” she said one day, when things and tempers had been unusually trying. “I cannot bear to say much about it to Reginald—he has enough to worry him in so many ways. I had hoped that when we settled down into this new life they would really try to be a comfort to us. But they think of nothing but their own likes and dislikes—they don’t seem to have the least idea of obedience. Why, Chrissie was almost rude to you, dear aunt, at their French lesson to-day—and Leila had evidently not pretended to learn those verses! And you are so good to them.”
“Do not distress yourself for me,” said Miss Fortescue. “We have all been to blame in the past, and we must face it and do our best. I am sure it will all come right in the end. Your children and Reginald’s, dear Edith, cannot be really selfish.”
Mrs Fortescue tried to smile.
“Perhaps I have been selfish in not being stricter with them,” she said. “My one idea was to make them happy, and with the boys it seems to have done no harm.”
“Roland has had the discipline of school for several years,” said Aunt Margaret; “and as for little Jasper—well, really, he seems one of those sweet natures that can’t be spoilt.”
“And I fancy he has had rather a Cinderella-like life in the nursery, boy though he is,” said his mother. “How strange it seems that selfishness in some should be good training for those who suffer from it.”
“But, on the other hand, there is the good example,” replied Miss Fortescue. “I have noticed several times that the little fellow’s gentleness and sweetness have made his sisters ashamed of themselves—Chrissie especially. And Jasper is not very strong, you know, whereas the girls are overflowing with health, which may be a bar to sympathy sometimes—all good gifts may be abused. But I do hope that the great change in their lives may prove a blessing in disguise to our little girls.”
“I had hoped so too,” said their mother. “Indeed, Miss Earle said something of the kind before she left. She had begun to feel very discouraged.”
“And other discipline will be sent if they do not profit by this,” said Miss Fortescue almost solemnly. “But let us hope that they will.”
Life, however, as the days went on, was by no means as peaceful and happy in the small house in Spenser Terrace as it might have been, and should have been. And but for Aunt Margaret’s unfailing sympathy and hopefulness I scarcely think Mrs Fortescue could have kept up at all. For she knew that she must be cheerful when her husband was at home. Life was far from easy for him at present; he was working hard in ways that were new to him, and more trying than if he had been a younger man, and a bright welcome and peaceful evenings were certainly due to him. More than once she tried to make her little daughters understand this, and for a few hours, a day or two at most, it seemed to impress them. But, alas! all too soon the old habits overmastered them again: Leila was as lazy and self-absorbed as ever; Chrissie disobedient and defiant.
Mrs Fortescue, with some difficulty, had found a daily governess, living near them, who was glad to come for the morning hours and take the children for a walk when lessons were over. She was a simple, good-natured girl, well taught and well able to teach up to a certain point, but she was a very different sort of governess from Miss Earle, and very soon both Leila and Christabel began to take advantage of her simplicity and half-timid manners.
One day, to her great distress, Mrs Fortescue, meeting the poor thing on her way out, saw unmistakable signs of recent tears in her face and eyes, and when a kind inquiry was made as to their cause, they burst out again more freely.
“I’m afraid I must give it up,” she sobbed, “and I was so glad to come near home and all. And it’s not easy for me to find pupils, as of course I am not accomplished.”
“But your English teaching is excellent,” said Mrs Fortescue; “it is all I require for the children at present. Please don’t be discouraged.”
Still she sobbed on.
“It’s—it’s not that,” she said, “except that if I were cleverer they—they might respect me. Jasper is as good as gold, but—but the little girls, the young ladies—they do not obey me in the least, and—and—they say things—”
Mrs Fortescue turned and walked down the street with her. It was quiet, and really less likely to be disturbed by passers-by than the small house by incursions of children!
“What sort of things? Tell me more, I beg you, Miss Greenall.”
“That—that I’m not a lady—and I have never pretended to be one in the full sense of the word. Father was only a shop-keeper, and mother is a farmer’s daughter. But still—I don’t think Christabel need speak as she does. And leila dawdles on purpose to vex me sometimes, I do think, and when I found fault to-day—she kept us waiting fully ten minutes—she said of course I couldn’t understand what it was to have no maid—‘of course you,’ she said, ‘have been used to huddling on your clothes anyhow, ever since you were quite a baby almost’—and,” Miss Greenall continued, “I know I am not untidy, though I dress plainly. Mother brought us up to be very neat.”
Mrs Fortescue sighed deeply.
“My dear Miss Greenall,” she said, “your mother brought you up much better than I seem to have brought up my daughters. I am unspeakably ashamed of them, and I beg you to accept my apology. And they shall apologise to you to-morrow morning.”
But at this poor Miss Greenall looked up with frightened eyes. She was a pretty fair girl, small and delicate-looking.
“Oh, please, please,” she entreated, “do not tell them I have complained. I could not go on if they knew it. I will try again and be a little firmer with them, if only, only you will say nothing.”
And, though against her own convictions, Mrs Fortescue had to agree to what Miss Greenall asked.
And for a few days things were better. The little girls had been startled by the sight of the tears which the poor governess had not been able to repress—startled and shamed. Nor had Jasper’s face of shocked surprise lessened the impression.
He was no tell-tale, but still—
“Japs,” said Chrissie, the first time they were alone together, “I’m sorry we made that silly Miss Green—what’s-her-name—cry, and so’s Lell. We were half joking, you know.”
The child looked at her with his solemn blue eyes, and Christabel felt herself blushing. She was naturally truthful.
“At least,” she went on, “we didn’t mean her to take it like that. She might have seemed to think it a joke. But we don’t want Mummy to hear about it. Things sound worse when they’re tell-taled.”
“I’se not a tell-tale,” said Jasper stoutly.
“Well, well—I didn’t say you were. And I promise that we won’t say those things again, as she minds them so, silly that she is.”
“Will you tell her you’re solly?” Jasper inquired.
“I don’t know—we’ll see about it,” Chrissie replied, “but any way we won’t make her cry again.”
So Jasper contented himself with cherishing most carefully the very best of his hyacinths, just beginning to show a little colour, as a gift to Miss Greenall, to be presented as soon as it would be fit for her acceptance.
“And if Lelly and Chrissie would werry much like to join,” he said to himself in his generous little heart, “we might give it ’atween us all. I’m sure it’s goin’ to be a splendid one.”
But, alas! before the hyacinth’s delicate pink flowers had reached perfection, and Jasper’s kind plan could be carried out, sad things had come to pass, which I must hasten to tell you about.
The impression made upon Leila and Chrissie by Miss Greenall’s distress was not a lasting one, except in so far as they were more careful in their way of speaking to her; for they knew that Jasper’s eyes were upon them, and that any rudeness to their teacher would not escape him. But beyond this, there was no real improvement. They were careless, unpunctual, and, so far as they dared, disobedient. Still Miss Greenall went on doing her best, and now and then her patience and gentleness had some little good, effect. She was able to tell Mrs Fortescue that things were rather better. “I think I can go on,” she said, “if only Leila was more attentive and Chrissie less heedless.”
It really went to her heart—brought up as she had been in neat and careful ways—to see the children’s destructiveness—copy-books blotted and torn; lesson-books dog-eared and spotted; worse still, frocks and aprons covered with ink, or ruthlessly smeared with fingers much in need of soap and water! And in these kinds of carelessness Christabel was the worst offender, in spite of her occasional good resolutions, always encouraged by Aunt Margaret, to try to be as neat as “you were, when you were a little girl,” in reply to which, her aunt would smile and assure her that good habits of no kind come all of themselves to anybody, man or woman, boy or girl.
It chanced one Sunday morning, when the sisters were, as usual, late in getting ready for church, and their father’s voice had sounded more than once up the staircase hastening them, that Chrissie could not find her prayer-book. Go without it she scarcely dared, for this was the sort of carelessness that Mr Fortescue himself might notice, and when “Daddy” did “notice,” even Chrissie “minded!” Now Leila was the happy possessor of two prayer-books, one of which was practically new, and which she kept wrapped up in tissue-paper in a drawer.
“Oh Lell,” said Chrissie in despair, as Leila was leaving the room, “do lend me your best one, or take it yourself and let me have the one like mine.”
“No, indeed, I won’t,” said Leila, hurrying off, as Mr Fortescue’s voice came again.
“You must run after us. We can wait no longer, children,” he called. Leila was already half-way downstairs.
Chrissie gave a frantic rush round the room again, scrambling under the beds, pushing aside chairs and tables in search of her book, but all in vain. And even if she had dared to take her sister’s “best one,” she was not sure where to look for it. It would have needed time to find.
“I must go,” she thought, “whatever happens.” So she dashed off—narrowly escaping falling downstairs in her hurry.
The others had all started, but the hall-door was left slightly ajar, and that of the drawing-room stood wide open, and as she ran past it, a sudden idea struck the child.
“I’ll take Aunt Margaret’s prayer-book,” she thought. “It’s just about the same size as mine, and if I keep it open nobody will see any difference, unless Lell perhaps, and she surely wouldn’t be so mean as to tell, after being so ill-natured to me.”
No sooner said than done, and in another minute Chrissie was racing down the street, book in hand, to overtake the family party, just turning the corner.
Leila glanced at her.
“You’ve found it, then?” she whispered, for Chrissie took care to hold the book so that its cover did not show. She made no reply, and Leila’s face darkened.
“If you’ve taken mine after all,” she said threateningly, though still in a low voice, “I’ll—”
“I haven’t, then,” said Chrissie, “I wouldn’t touch a thing of yours, you mean creature.”
“I don’t believe you,” said Leila, catching her arm, so as to see the book.
“Children,” said their mother’s voice, warningly.
They started.
“I’ve got Aunt Margaret’s out of the drawing-room,” whispered Christabel. “There now—if it’s found out, it’s all your fault,” and Leila, startled, made no reply.
Church-time passed, and more than once Mrs Fortescue, glancing at the children, was pleased to see that Chrissie appeared to be following the service with unusual attention. She would have been less content had she known that for this there were two reasons. Firstly, Chrissie was afraid of closing the prayer-book; secondly, she was interested and amused by the old-world names she found in it—“His Majesty King George,” “Our gracious Queen Charlotte,” etc, etc, the Service for “Gunpowder’s Day,” and other now discarded memorials. It was really quite “entertaining,” but I doubt if her idle, careless thoughts took part in one single prayer all through the morning, if even one “Our Father,” in which surely the very youngest child, as well as the humblest and simplest worshipper, can fully join, came from her heart.
Poor Chrissie—poor Leila—sterner teaching was preparing for them.
There was some delay in the church porch, as the congregation was passing out.
“I do believe it’s raining,” said Mrs Fortescue, and so it was. “I hope you have your umbrellas, children?” she went on.
Yes—Leila had brought hers; but Chrissie, no! “Really Chrissie,” said her father, “you are too forgetful. Don’t you remember my saying at breakfast that it looked very like rain?”
Chrissie made no reply; for once she had no excuse to offer.
“Give me your umbrella, Leila,” said their mother, “and you take mine—or, yes, Daddy’s,” as he hold it out, “that is larger still, and run home together as fast as you can.”
The sisters set off, as they were told, Leila, as the taller, holding the umbrella. But oh, how cross she was! “Too bad’s” and “All your fault’s” were hurled at Chrissie, till the rain and the running and the weight of the rather heavy umbrella, reduced Leila to silence, in spite of Chrissie’s provoking rejoinders.
“My fault indeed! If you had been good-natured for once and lent me your other prayer-book I wouldn’t have been in such a fuss, and then I wouldn’t have forgotten my own umbrella.”
They were both out of breath, and certainly out of temper, when at last—for distances do seem doubled and trebled in such uncomfortable circumstances—they reached Spenser Terrace, and flinging the wet umbrella at Harriet to look after, slowly made their way upstairs to their own room.
Chrissie tore off her hat and coat with her usual haste. They were not very wet after all, but as she was tossing the jacket aside, something hard bumped against her knee.
“There’s something in one of the pockets,” she said, feeling in it as she spoke. Then out she drew her own prayer-book. “Look here, Lell,” she exclaimed, restored to good-humour by her triumph. “It was in here all the time—ever since last Sunday, I daresay.”
“I daresay,” repeated Leila scornfully. “There never was any one so careless as you. You’d better run down and put Aunt Margaret’s treasure back in its place before she misses it.”
Christabel started. She got red, then white. She glanced at the bed, where her hat and gloves were lying; she felt in her frock pocket, she stared at the floor, then in terror and despair she burst out—“Lell, Lell, what shall I do? I’ve lost it.”