Chapter Four.
Babies.
There was plenty to think of all that day. Mary’s little head had never been so full, and before bedtime came she began to feel quite sleepy.
It had been a very happy day, even though everything seemed rather strange. Their father would have liked to stay with them, but he was obliged to go away. Nurse—I mean Artie’s and Mary’s own nurse—was very good to them, and so were cook and all the other servants. The birthday dinner was just what Mary liked—roast chicken and bread-sauce and little squirly rolls of bacon, and a sponge-cake pudding with strawberry jam. And there was a very nice tea, too; the only pity was that baby could not have any of the good things, because, as nurse explained, she had no teeth.
“She’ll have some by next birthday, won’t she?” asked Leigh.
“I hope so, poor dear,” said nurse, “though she’ll scarcely be able to eat roast chicken by then.”
“Why do you say ‘poor dear’?” asked Leigh.
“Because their teeth coming often hurts babies a good deal,” said nurse.
“It would be much better if they were all ready,” said Leigh. “I don’t see why they shouldn’t be. Baby’s got hands and eyes and everything else—why shouldn’t she have teeth?”
“I’m sure I can’t say, Master Leigh,” nurse answered. “There’s many things we can’t explain.”
Mary opened her mouth wide and began tugging at her own little white teeth.
“Them doesn’t hurt me,” she said.
“Ah but they did, Miss Mary,” said nurse. “Many a night you couldn’t sleep for crying with the pain of them, but you can’t remember it.”
“It’s very funny,” said Mary.
“What’s funny?” asked Leigh.
“About ’amembering,” answered Mary, and a puzzled look came into her face. “Can you ’amember when you was a tiny baby, nurse?”
“No, my dear, nobody can,” said nurse. “But don’t worry yourself about understanding things of that kind.”
“There’s somefin in my head now that I can’t ’amember,” said Mary, “somefin papa said. It’s that that’s teasing me, nurse. I don’t like to not ’amember what papa said.”
“You must ask him to-morrow, dearie,” nurse answered. “You’ll give yourself a headache if you go on trying too hard to remember.”
“Isn’t it funny how things go out of our minds like that?” said Leigh. “I’ll tell you what I think it is. I think our minds are like cupboards or chests of drawers, and some of the things get poked very far back so that we can’t get at them when we want them. You see the newest things are at the front, that’s how we can remember things that have just happened and not things long ago.”
“No,” said Artie, “’tisn’t quite like that, Leigh. For I can remember what we had for dinner on my birthday, and that was very long ago, before last winter, much better than what we had for dinner one day last week.”
“I can tell you how that is,” said nurse, “what you had for dinner on your birthday made a mark on your mind because it was your birthday. Everything makes marks on our minds, I suppose, but some go deeper than others. That’s how it’s always seemed to me about remembering and forgetting. And if there’s any name I want to remember very much I say it out loud to myself two or three times, and that seems to press it into my mind. Dear, dear, how well I remember doing that way at school when I was a little girl. There was the kings and queens, do what I would, I couldn’t remember how their names came, till I got that way of saying two or three together, like ‘William and Mary, Anne, George the First,’ over and over.”
The children listened with great interest to nurse’s recollections, the boys especially, that is to say; the talk was rather too difficult for Mary to understand. But her face looked very grave; she seemed to be listening to what nurse said, and yet thinking of something behind it. All at once her eyes grew bright and a smile broke out like a ray of sunshine.
“I ’amember,” she said joyfully. “Nursie said her couldn’t ’amember names. It was names papa said. He said us was to fink of a name for baby.”
“Oh, is that what you’ve been fussing about?” said Leigh. “I could have told you that long ago. I’ve fixed what I want her to be called. I’ve thought of a very pretty name.”
Mary looked rather sorry.
“I can’t fink of any names,” she said; “I can only fink of ‘Mary.’ Can’t her be called ‘Mary,’ ’cos it’s my birfday?”
Leigh and Artie both began to laugh.
“What a silly girl you are,” said Leigh; “how could you have two people in one family with the same name? Whenever we called ‘Mary,’ you’d never know if it was you or the baby we meant.”
“You could say ‘baby Mary,’” said Mary, who did not like to be called a silly girl.
“And when she was big,” said Leigh, “how would she like to be called ‘baby’?”
Mary had not thought of this, still she would not give in.
“Peoples has the same names,” she said. “Papa’s name’s ‘Leigh,’ and your name’s ‘Leigh,’—there now—” and as another idea struck her, “and us all is called Bertum. Papa’s Mr Bertum and mamma’s Mrs Bertum and—and—”
“And you’re ‘Miss Bertum,’” said Leigh, laughing. “But that’s because Bertram is our family name, you see, Mary. We’ve each got a first name too. It doesn’t much matter papa and me being the same, except that sometimes I think mamma’s calling me when she means papa, but it would never do if Artie and I had the same name. Fancy, if we were both called ‘Artie,’ we’d never know which you meant.”
“No,” said Mary, laughing too, “it would be a very bad plan. I never thought of that. But I can’t think of a pitty name for dear little baby.”
“There’s lots,” said Artie, who had been sitting very silent—to tell the truth, he had forgotten all about choosing a name, but he did not want to say so. So he had been thinking of all the names he could, so that he might seem quite as ready as Leigh. “There’s Cowslip and Buttercup and Firefly and—”
“Nonsense,” said Leigh, “considering you’re six years old, Artie, you’re sillier than Mary. Those are cows’ names, and—”
“They’re not—not all of them,” said Artie, “Firefly’s a pony’s name. It’s little Ella Curry’s pony’s name, and I think it’s very pretty.”
“For a pony perhaps,” said nurse, “but then you see, Master Artie, your little sister isn’t a pony.”
“I wish she was,” said Leigh, and when nurse looked up astonished he looked rather ashamed. “Of course I don’t mean that it isn’t nice for her to be a little girl,” he went on, “but I do so wish we had a pony.”
“You may just be patient for a while, Master Leigh,” said nurse; “you know your papa’s promised you a pony when you’re ten years old, and by that time baby will be nearly two.”
“That won’t matter,” said Leigh, “even Mary won’t be able to ride my pony. It’s to be a real sensible one, not a stupid donkey sort of pony, with panniers or a basket on its back.”
“No,” said Artie, “it’s to be a galoppy-trot one! Won’t we make him go, Leigh.”
“I shall,” said Leigh; “you won’t have much to say to it. You’ll be too little too.”
Artie’s face fell. Mary, who was sitting beside him, slipped her little hand into his.
“Nebber mind, Artie,” she said. “We’ll ask papa to give us anoder pony. A very gentle one for you and me and baby.”
“A perambulator will be more in baby’s way,” said nurse. “Miss Mary’s old one is quite worn out and they do make such pretty ones nowadays. I hope your mamma will get her a very nice one.”
“And may we push it sometimes?” said Artie, brightening up again, “that would be nice.”
Leigh gave a little laugh.
“What a baby you are, Artie,” he was beginning, but nurse, who saw that he was in one of his teasing humours, looked up quickly.
“It’s such a fine evening,” she said, “and it’s scarcely five o’clock. How would you like to go out a little walk? We didn’t go very far to-day. We might go as far as the Lavender Cottages, I’ve something to take there from your mamma.”
The boys looked very pleased.
“Oh yes, nurse,” they said, “do let’s go out.”
“And mayn’t we stop and see the puppies at the smithy on the way?” Leigh went on.
“I’m f’ightened of those little barky dogs,” said Mary; “I don’t want to go out, nurse, I’m sleepy.”
“It’ll do you good, my dear, to have a little walk before you go to bed; you’ll sleep all the better for it and wake all the fresher in the morning,” and a few minutes afterwards, when the little party were walking down the drive, Mary looked quite bright again.
It was a very lovely evening. The way to the Lavender Cottages lay across the fields, and, as every one knows, there is nothing prettier than a long stretch of grass land with the tender spring green lighted up by late afternoon sunshine.
Mary trotted along contentedly, thinking to herself.
“My birfday’s going to bed soon,” she thought, “and to-morrow morning it’ll be gone—gone away for a long, long time,” and she gave a little sigh. “But somefins won’t be gone away, all my birfday presents will stay, and baby sister will stay, and when my birfday comes back again it will be hers too. Dear little baby sister! I wish her had comed out a walk wif us, the sun is so pitty.”
The smithy was at the foot of the road leading up to the cottages, just opposite the stile by which they left the fields. This stile had three steps up and three steps down, with a bar of wood to clamber across at the top. It was one of the children’s favourite stiles, as the boys always pretended that the bar was a pony on which they had a ride on the way over. To-day nurse and Mary waited patiently till they had ridden far enough. Then Artie hopped down the other side and Leigh stood at the top to help his sister over, for though he was a teasing boy sometimes, he never forgot that she was a little girl and that it was his place to take care of her.
“Leigh,” said Mary, as he was lifting her down, “I is so f’ightened of those little dogs! Please don’t go to see them.”
“How can you be frightened of them, Mary?” said Leigh. “It’s really very silly! They’re only baby dogs, don’t you understand; they couldn’t hurt anybody.”
This was quite a new idea to Mary, and she stopped short on the second step of the stile to think about it.
“Baby dogs,” she said, “I never thought little dogs was babies. Is there babies of everything, Leigh?”
“Of course there are. Don’t you remember the baby ducks? And the little lambs are baby sheep, and even the tiny buds are baby flowers.”
“And babies never hurts nobody, does they?” said Mary, as she got safely to the ground again with the help of her brother’s hand. “Then I won’t be f’ightened, Leigh, of the little doggies. You may take me to see them,” and as Leigh hurried on to the smithy, which he thought the most delightful place in the world, Mary trotted beside him as fast as her little legs could go, holding firmly to him while she said over to herself, though in rather a trembling voice—
“I never thought them was baby dogs, babies don’t hurt nobody.”
Yakeman the smith was standing in front of his forge, taking a rest after the day’s work.
“Good-evening, Master Leigh,” he said, as the children came up to him. “Come for a look at the puppies, sir? They’re getting on finely. Would Missie like to see them too?” and he turned to open a little gate leading into his garden.
Leigh looked down at Mary, not quite sure what she would feel about it. Her face was rather red, and she pinched his hand more tightly.
“Would you like to see them, Mary?” he asked.
“Oh, yes, I’m not f’ightened now,” she answered bravely.
“You’ve no call to be afear’d,” said Yakeman, as he led the way.
“No,” said Mary, “’cos them’s only babies.”
The puppies were all tumbling over each other in a comfortable nest of hay in the corner of a shed. There were four of them, brown curly balls, nearly as soft and fluffy as Leigh’s favourite ducklings.
Yakeman stooped down and picked one up with his big hand and held it close to Mary. She stroked it gently with the very tip of her fingers.
“It are sweet,” she said, with a rather shaky little laugh, and as no harm came of her touching it, she grew still braver.
“May I kiss its little head?” she said, looking up at the tall blacksmith, who smiled down on her.
“To be sure, Missie,” said he, so Mary buried her nose in the brown fur, suddenly giving a little cry as she felt something warm and wet on her cheek.
“He’s licking you,” said Leigh; “I dare say he means it for kissing though. I say, Mary, wouldn’t it be nice if papa would let us have a puppy for our very own.”
“A baby puppy and a baby sister,” said Mary. “Did you know us had got a baby sister?” she went on, to the smith. “Her comed to-day ’cos it were my birfday.”
“That was a fine birthday present,” said Yakeman, “and you’d be welcome to this puppy if your papa would allow you to have it. I’ve promised two and I’m keeping one myself, but this here I’d not settled about.”
Mary’s eyes sparkled, and so did Leigh’s. “We’d have him between us, Mary,” said Leigh. “We must ask papa. You’d better ask him because of its being your birthday, you know.”
Just then they heard nurse’s voice, she had been waiting for Artie while he had another ride on the stile.
“Master Leigh and Miss Mary, where are you?” she said. “We must be getting on.”
The children thanked the smith and ran after her, full of the offer which had been made to them.
“Oh, nurse,” said Mary, when they had told her of it. “Just fink of all my birfday presents! A baby sister and a baby dog, and all my nother things,” and she gave a great sigh of pleasure.
“Yes, indeed, Miss Mary,” said nurse. “I don’t think you’ll ever forget your fourth birthday.”