[CHAPTER VI]
'YOU DO UNDERSTAND SO WELL, MAMMA'
I shall never forget the first morning's awaking in the Hut. Well, as I knew it, it seemed as if I had not till then ever been there before. I do not mean so much the actual waking; that of course is always a little confusing, even if only in a different room from the one you are used to, and I was particularly accustomed to my own room at Eastercove, as we were not people who went away very much. We loved home too well for that.
No, though I rubbed my eyes and stared about me and wondered why the window had changed its place, I soon remembered where I was, especially when I caught sight of Esmé's little bed beside mine, and of Esmé's pink cheeks and bright hair as she lay fast asleep still, looking like a comfortable doll.
I was thinking rather of the feelings I had when I was dressed—I dressed very quickly, despising any warm water in my bath for once, and moved about very quietly, so as not to waken Esmé and thereby vex Hoskins the very first morning—and made my way out to the porch and stood there gazing about me.
It was not so very early after all—half-past seven by mamma's little clock in the drawing-room, and I heard the servants working busily in the kitchen and dining-room, though there was no sound from poor old Geordie's corner, in spite of his overnight intentions of being up by six!
But outside it seemed very, very early. It was so absolutely alone—so strangely far from any sight or sound of common human life, except for just one little thing—a tiny white sail, far, far away on the horizon—a mere speck it seemed. And below where I stood,—I think I have said that the hut was on a sort of 'plateau,—' though at some little distance, came the sound of the waves, lapping in softly, for it was a calm day, and now and then the flash of a gull as it flew past, or the faint, peculiar cry of some other sea-bird or coast-bird nearer inland. For the spot was so quiet and seemingly isolated that rather wild, shy birds were not afraid of visiting it, even when there was no stormy weather or signs of such out at sea.
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.