Children of the Dear Cotswolds

by L. Allen Harker

No one noticed that he had gone. Miss Biddle, the holiday governess, sat reading in the shade of the cliff, absorbed in The Blue Necklace. His cousins, Cedric and Githa, both older than he, were building an elaborate sand-castle, according to a diagram spread on the sand, and held in place by stones laid on the four corners.

When he reached the top he turned his back upon the beach, and sat down on a big stone, elbows on knees, and hands clasped under the sharp little chin that rested on them. The yellow cornfields became blurred and dim as he gazed, for Ronnie was lonely and dreadfully homesick. Everybody he cared for seemed so far away—even Uncle Gerald, the kind and understanding, was shooting in Scotland, and seemed as remote as father and mother in India.

The big tears brimmed over and fell. Then everything grew clear again. It was very pretty, the corn billowing in golden waves under the soft wind; but its beauty did not cheer him. Rather did he remember dismally that last time he sat beside it insects, that he decided must be singularly silent and stealthy mosquitoes, came out and bit him so that he was all over itching lumps afterwards. All the same, he didn't move: he was too miserable. Moreover he had that morning come to the conclusion that something must be done. He had no idea what. But ideas come with reflection. So, after a sniff or two, he unclasped his hands, polished his nose with his sleeve, and then sat very still, going over in his mind all the time since he came Home, to try to discover why there should be what he called "a kind-of-a-ness" over everything.

He was quite fair. He recognised that it was partly his own fault for getting fever in the cold weather. Then, too, fate had conspired against him, for the Friths were coming Home in the middle of May. If they hadn't been sailing then, there would have been nobody to send him with. He had been coming for good next hot weather, when he would be seven, with mother and baby-brother. They were coming then for certain. But a whole year, to a child, seems an interminable, abysmal space, that no hopes can bridge.

He had known all along that he was to go to Aunt Hildegarde till mother came back—Aunt Hildegarde, who lived in a place called Golder's Green. He knew that there was an Uncle Edward and two cousins, in fact he faintly remembered having seen them last time he came Home; but as he was only three then his impressions were somewhat hazy.

Perhaps if he had come straight to these relatives he might have shaken down better, but the Fates had settled otherwise. Just as the P. & O. reached Marseilles, Cedric and Githa got measles, and Aunt Hildegarde, who was most conscientious, decided that she couldn't possibly allow Ronnie to run the risk of infection. She therefore appealed to Uncle Gerald to take him till all danger was past.

This, had Ronnie known it, was asking a good deal; for Uncle Gerald, who was his father's uncle, was an elderly bachelor of fairly fixed habits. Nevertheless, as he was fond of Ronnie's parents, and there really seemed to be nobody else, he agreed to take the little boy till such time as the nursery at Golder's Green was ready to receive him. He even came up himself to Charing Cross to meet the P. & O. express, and took over Ronnie from kind Mrs. Frith, who, with three children of her own to look after, had yet found room in her heart to love Ronnie quite a lot. As he sat there in the sunshine gazing at the golden waves, he thought of the blue green waves that washed around the big home-bound steamer, and in remembering the voyage, unconsciously compared his aunt and Mrs. Frith, wondering why it was Aunt Hildegarde made you "feel so different." Mrs. Frith was often hasty—four children and an ayah in the Red Sea are enough to put an edge on the smoothest temper—but she was always fair even in her hastiness. And she judged the exasperating conduct of Ronnie with precisely the same amount of irritation as she brought to bear on that of her own offspring. Aunt Hildegarde kept a quite separate compartment in her mind for the consideration of Ronnie. He was conscious of this and resented it. Then memory swung back to Uncle Gerald—Uncle Gerald coming down the drive in a cloud of dogs.

As he thought of the dogs the big tears welled up again and rolled down his cheeks. Everything about that first day in England seemed to stand out before him in a series of pictures like those he had once seen at a theatre in India. There was all the bustle and rushing at Charing Cross. Uncle Gerald, tall, with closely-trimmed grey beard, and kind keen eyes under his broad forehead—such a lot of forehead Uncle Gerald had. Ronnie even remembered hearing Mrs. Frith say, "Oh, he's a dear little soul, very talkative and officious, but quite affectionate; cheerful too—which is a great matter with children, don't you think?" Then there was a scramble for luggage. Ronnie's little cabin trunk was disentangled. He was embraced by all the Frith family and ayah, and, hand in hand with this tall, unknown Uncle Gerald, hurried down the big station to a taxi-cab. They drove across London to another station—Paddington it was called, where they had tea—and into the train again for another journey. Then, in the slowly fading spring light, a long drive in a motor through green country lanes till they turned into some big gates and drove up to a house whence issued a most tremendous barking and yapping. The door was opened and four dogs rushed out—long-bodied, rough-haired West Highland terriers, their colour ranging from almost black to lightish grey—who jumped all over Uncle Gerald with noisy manifestations of delight, sniffed curiously at Ronnie, and as he was not in the least afraid of them, took him into favour at once and jumped on him—Collum and Puddock and Mona their mother, and frisky, cheeky little Rannoch, who was no relation to any of them, and took the greatest liberties with all three.

All Uncle Gerald's servants had been with him for untold ages, and all were elderly excepting the housemaid, who had only been there a short ten years, and occasionally was still spoken of as "that new girl." Her name was Grace, and she came from somewhere near Perth, and it was to her care that Ronnie was entrusted for such matters as bathing and dressing and hair-brushing.

Before he slept that night he knew all about Grace, and decided that she was a person to be cultivated. But he felt that about all of them. His coming into that silent (save for the dogs), regular house was something of an adventure. The household rose to it, and the loquacious, inquisitive, lively little boy never even knocked at their hearts, but walked straight in and took possession. He decided that England was a nice place: a bit cold, perhaps, when one got up in the morning, but very pretty and full of interesting things to do. He gardened with the three gardeners, wasting hours of their time, and starting endless horticultural experiments which were wholly without result. He cleaned the motor with Robinson and got so wet that Grace, looking out of the pantry window, caught him and changed all his clothes, which he thought very unnecessary. It was her one fault—she was always so suspicious of damp.